It took a long time for the celebrations to die down. Even though it was only the second game of the season, it wasn't until I saw the team singing loudly and smiling ear to ear in the locker room that the full gravity of how important the game really had been sank into me.

Coach Vance patted me on the back, saying something I couldn't make out over the noise. It was night by the time I stepped out of the stadium via the back door. I reached for my phone, where my mum had texted me live throughout the game, and was about to call Bishop to come with the car when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

My stomach flipped as Luca grinned at me, giving a little salute. I fixed my hearing aids into place, the sudden rush of street noise flooding back in, and smiled back at him.

"Hungry?" he asked, leaning closer so I could read his lips in the dim glow of the streetlights.

I nodded.

Instead of heading toward the team bus or a taxi, Luca led me around the corner to where a dark matte scooter was parked under an old oak tree. He handed me a helmet with a quick wink, strapping his own on before throwing a leg over the seat. I climbed on behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist and pressing my chest against his back as the engine hummed to life. The wind picked up around us, freezing due to the day's rain. I couldn't understand why my chest still felt warm when he leaned back into me, his hand on my knee as if checking I was settled.

He flashed me a thumbs-up, and I nodded, my voice muffled when I spoke through the helmet. "I'm okay."

And then we were off.

Luca navigated the scooter out of the stadium district and straight into the historic heart of the city. He expertly weaved through the labyrinth of narrow, cobble-paved alleyways—streets barely wide enough for a single car, squeezed between centuries-old stone buildings with trailing ivy hanging from wrought-iron balconies. The damp post-rain asphalt glistened under the warm amber glow of streetlamps, reflecting off the wet stone walls as we zipped past quiet piazzas, shuttered bakeries, and small residential squares where the smell of rain and roasted garlic hung thick in the cool night air.

I leaned my face against him, gazing at the glitzy lights that passed by us in a drunken blur. His scent—citrus, aquatic, and leather—pierced my senses, and I breathed in deeply, a pleasant tingle reaching my spine that I could not explain away by post-match euphoria. He squeezed my hand at traffic lights, touching my knee, my thigh, making sure I was okay again and again throughout the ride. Each of his touches sent electric sparks under my skin, making my face heat up.

Eventually, we pulled onto a secluded, dimly lit side street away from the main thoroughfare. Luca slowed the scooter to a stop right in front of a small, low-key diner tucked into the ground floor of an old brick building. Its yellow neon sign buzzed softly in the night, illuminating a rustic wooden door and a single window showing a few quiet, scattered patrons inside.

Luca cut the engine, the sudden stillness wrapping around us, and looked back at me over his shoulder with a warm smile. I hopped off, removing the helmet and gazing at the cozy little restaurant. 'OREGANIC' it read in English.

Luca got off, removing his helmet and brushing his hand through his messy hair. He pointed at the restaurant with a smile. "Cheesy," he mouthed.

I closed my right hand into a fist, using the index finger to touch my cheek. "Cute," I mouthed at the same time.

We walked into the restaurant, immediately smelling the rich, comforting aromas of slow-simmered tomatoes, toasted garlic, and freshly baked bread.

The place was wonderfully low-key, bathed in soft, warm lighting with exposed brick walls, vintage football scarves pinned near the ceiling, and only a handful of customers scattered across the wooden booths. It felt tucked away from the rest of the world—a quiet sanctuary after the loud, roaring chaos of the stadium.

As the host, a kindly old lady, led us toward the back, my eyes caught a small chalked sign near the entrance highlighting their dedicated, fully plant-based menu. I perused it curiously. Seeing a place that took vegan options seriously—rather than just tossing together a plain side salad—was a rare treat, especially after a grueling match where I needed real, substantial food. Luca caught me staring at the sign and gave me a nudge with a chuckle. 

We took a secluded corner booth tucked beneath a small stained-glass window. A few seconds later, the same old lady with silver hair wrapped in a neat bun and a flour-dusted apron shuffled over to our table, holding two handwritten menus. She offered us a motherly smile, pouring two tall glasses of ice water without us even having to ask.

Knowing our bodies needed heavy complex carbs and clean protein to recover from ninety minutes in the pouring rain, we ordered quickly. For me, I picked a massive bowl of whole-wheat rigatoni tossed in a rich lentil Bolognese, paired with a side of steamed wild greens and olive oil. Luca opted for a towering plate of handmade tagliatelle with a slow-cooked beef ragù and a side of grilled chicken breast.

As the old lady shuffled back toward the kitchen, a young couple walked in, giggling softly with their fingers intertwined. They slid into the booth right beside ours, completely wrapped up in each other. The girl rested her head on the guy's shoulder while he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple and murmuring something that made her face turn red.

I glanced back at Luca, who was typing on his phone, his eyebrows furrowed slightly.

"Everything okay?" I asked, leaning closer.

"Yeah, sorry," he clicked his tongue. "Sorry." He shoved his phone back into his pocket.

I took a slow sip of water and looked at the couple again, who were now engaged in a kiss that seemed more like the guy eating the girl's face, but she didn't seem too horrified. They must be lovers, I concluded.

Was that what it was like? They could go out as a couple, kiss and hold and touch each other like they wanted.

Before I could sink too deep into the thought, three young waitresses from the far end of the restaurant suddenly huddled together, whispering excitedly. Their eyes darted toward our corner before two of them practically bounced over to our booth, clutching their aprons with bright grins and starry eyes.

One of them gasped something in rapid Italian, her face pink as she leaned right over the edge of our table toward Luca. She smiled at him, batting her eyelashes the way I'd seen Mum do to men when she needed them to do her bidding. This girl, however, was leaning in much too close, her shoulder brushing against Luca's arm as she held out her phone.

A sudden, sharp spike of heat flared in my chest. My jaw set, and beneath the tablecloth, my hands curled into tight fists. It was uncivilized, in my opinion, to barge so close into a place without prior (and preferably, written) permission.

Luca offered her a smile instead of telling her off and answered in English. I wasn't sure why he would choose to do so, when he could have continued the conversation in Italian, as the girls would have clearly preferred. "Ah, thank you! Glad you enjoyed the match."

"Could we please get a photo with you?" the second girl squeaked, also in English, stepping around the booth and coming up right next to my side of the table.

The second girl's eyes went wide as she turned to me. "Wait—the Elliot Hayes?" She continued rapidly; all I got was "Oh my god-" and decided the rest was not significant enough to lip-read. Her face lit up even brighter as she talked breathlessly.

Before I could figure out what was happening, Luca scooted closer to me in the booth, his side pressing warmly against mine. He slung an arm around my shoulder, and all my previous unresolved feelings at the appearance of the strange girls dissolved suddenly. I melted into him, his breath warm against my ear as the camera flashed. The hot, unpleasant spike in my chest at the image of Luca with those girls dissipated the moment he turned his attention to me instead.

Before the girls could say anything more, a sharp, loud clearing of a throat echoed from the kitchen doorway.

The kindly old lady stood there, holding a massive tray laden with steam, her brows drawn into a fierce glare. She barked something in loud Italian, nodding her head toward where Luca and I were still entangled in a half-embrace, and then at the wall clock.

The two waitresses turned bright red, bowing their heads, and scampered back toward the kitchen like startled birds.

The old lady shook her head and brought over our piping hot plates of pasta, speaking in a low voice to Luca. Italian again.

"It's okay," Luca answered in English, placing the plate in front of me. "Don't worry about it."

Luca didn't make any attempt to go and sit across from me, staying beside me as he took a long sip of the cold water in front of him. The statistically insignificant action felt like a warm blanket draped across my shoulders.

"How did you know about this place?" I asked softly after a while, glancing again at the couple who were now drinking from one glass of milkshake, making bright eyes at each other.

"Got around a lot," Luca answered simply, taking a bite of the pasta and moaning in approval. "How's yours?"

"You should try," I responded. "Vegan cheese is surprisingly good."

I didn't wait for him to use his fork; it was simply inefficient. So I used mine, blew on it a few times to cool it down, and then held it in front of his face. He glanced once at the dripping pasta, then at me.

His pupils had dilated by what I estimated to be two millimeters—inconsistent with the ambient lighting, which had not changed. I filed the observation without a cause to attach it to. It joined the memory of the way he had leaned in after the charity gala, and the way my heart had reacted, and the way my legs had wanted to sprint away from him and into him at the same time, sending all my data and logic into overdrive until nothing resolved.

It was happening again now. The weightless feeling, low in my stomach. My own heart rate climbing for no exertion-based reason I could identify. I noted it and set it aside, because he was still looking at me and the pasta was getting cold.

He leaned in, his lips closing over the fork as he took the bite. Slowly. I was almost certain it was too slow—the movement did not match the efficiency the situation called for—and his eyes stayed fixed on mine the entire time. His jaw worked. His throat moved. He licked his lower lip, still watching me, and my stomach dropped as though the floor had tilted.

"It's... addictive," he said.

His choice of words was odd. Pasta did not contain compounds that produced dependency in the clinical sense. Perhaps it was an Italian idiom I hadn't yet catalogued, or American slang. I made a note to look it up later.

There was a spot of sauce on his chin. So I reached over with a tissue and patted it away gently. It was simply the most efficient option.

He gulped—even though he had already swallowed the pasta—and his face went red, a flush climbing from his collar to his ears. He turned away from me and chugged his glass almost empty.

I wondered if the arrabbiata had been too spicy for him. Or if he was exhibiting early symptoms of the shellfish allergy I had flagged when he ordered; capillary flushing and elevated heart rate would be consistent. I resolved to keep an eye on him for the next thirty minutes, in case it escalated.

His grip on the empty glass was very tight.

I did not know why the observation made my own chest feel warm.