CHAPTER 137: THE QUIET BETWEEN US

The bus ride home was slow and quiet, the kind where time felt stretched between streetlights and the low hum of tires against the road.

Luca sat by the window, cheek pressed to the cool glass, watching buildings blur past in a daze of orange glow and shadow.

He didn’t listen to music.

Didn’t scroll his phone.

Just stared, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands, the faintest trace of Noel’s cologne still clinging to the fabric.The scent was almost gone now—but it still held him.

By the time the bus hissed to a stop near his neighborhood, the sky had deepened into a soft indigo, stars barely peeking through the city’s haze.

Luca stepped off and walked the quiet stretch home, passing familiar hedges and trimmed fences.

His street was calm, the kind of upper-class quiet money could buy—tall iron gates, distant porch lights, and the occasional soft splash of a garden fountain.

He reached the black metal gate and held up his pass.

A beep. The gate slid open with a mechanical hum.

The house stood at the far end—modern, sleek, and a little too cold-looking, with white stone walls and tall windows.

A pool lay still on one side, the water reflecting dim moonlight like glass.

Luca didn’t pause. Just walked to the main door, keycard already in hand.

He pushed it open.

Silence.

No voices. No footsteps. No music drifting in from the kitchen, like when the housemaid was around.

Just the low tick of the thermostat and the gloss of untouched furniture catching the hallway light.

His dad wasn’t home yet.

He didn’t bother turning on the lights.

The motion-sensor hallway glow lit his path in pulses as he padded upstairs.

He reached upstairs to his room—the door already half open—and nudged it wider with his foot.

Everything was the same... and not. Clothes on the floor.

A game controller half-buried in his blanket.

Designer sneakers kicked off near the rug. A stack of untouched vinyls beside the massive TV. Luxury everywhere, but none of it felt like comfort.

He stood in the doorway for a second.

He stepped in, letting the door fall shut with a soft, final click.

Without touching the lamp, he walked across the room, ignoring the mess entirely and fell face-first onto the bed—hoodie and all.

The mattress barely gave a bounce beneath him.

He lay still, the weight of the night finally settling in.

The city outside carried on in muted sounds—distant cars, a dog barking somewhere far, a plane overhead.

Luca didn’t move.

Just closed his eyes.

He didn’t cry. But the weight in his chest pressed heavy and still. Like the silence that settles after a goodbye.

And let the dark wrap around him like a sigh.

Meanwhile, miles away, morning light filtered into a quieter world—Noel’s.

The light slipped through the curtains in pale gold streaks, pooling softly across the wooden floor of Noel’s old bedroom.

Outside, birds chirped lazily, as if they too had just woken.

Noel stirred beneath the sheets, one arm stretched toward the edge of the bed.

He blinked at the ceiling for a moment, the kind of quiet where thoughts hadn’t quite formed yet.

Then he reached for his phone beside the pillow.

1 New Message. Not from Luca.

He unlocked it, hesitated, then he typed:

"Good morning. Did you sleep okay?"

He stared at the screen for a beat, then hit send.

A gentle scent was already curling up the stairs—something warm, familiar, slightly sweet.

His stomach gave the faintest rumble.

He rolled out of bed with a yawn, dragging his fingers through his hair as he padded across the room.

In the bathroom, he brushed his teeth slowly, water running as the mirror fogged a little.

He washed his face, let the cool splash clear whatever weight still clung to his eyes.

Downstairs, the soft clinking of plates and the low murmur of voices guided him.

His mother was in the kitchen, back turned, apron on, stirring something in a pan.

The sound of sizzling eggs and the rich aroma of toasted bread wrapped the room in warmth.

His father sat at the dining table with a newspaper spread open, reading glasses perched low on his nose.

A quiet sip from a cup of coffee.

When Noel stepped in, his mother turned with a smile that was instant and full.

"There you are," she said, wiping her hands on a towel. "You didn’t sleep through the smell, did you?"

Noel chuckled softly, walking over. "Almost," he said, leaning down to peck her cheek. "Morning."

His dad folded a section of the paper. "If he’s anything like he used to be," he said, voice steady but teasing, "he’s only here because he heard food was involved."

Noel gave a dramatic sigh. "You wound me, Dad."

They all laughed.

His mom gestured to the table. "Sit, sit. It’s still hot."

Noel took his seat, and she began setting plates in front of them—scrambled eggs, toasted bread, pl?, and slices of avocado already lined up in rows like something from a cooking show.

As soon as he started digging in, his mom was back at his side with more.

"Eat, Noel," she insisted, already spooning another serving onto his plate before he could even protest. "You lost weight. Look at you."

"I didn’t lose weight, I grew into my bones," Noel said around a mouthful, grinning.

His father raised a brow. "Ah, so you’re a philosopher now."

Noel laughed. "I’ve been practicing."

The dining room was filled with the gentle sounds of forks clinking, occasional bursts of laughter, and the kind of peace that didn’t need to be spoken.

It had been a while since he felt like this—like a boy at home, safe, full, and exactly where he was supposed to be.

His mother sat down at last, sliding into her seat with a satisfied sigh. "This is nice," she murmured, smiling between her boys.

And for a moment, everything was still.

Warm Simple Right.

They lingered at the table long after their plates were clean, sipping tea, nibbling on fruits, and letting the soft morning breeze drift in through the open windows.

His mom glanced at the clock on the wall and stood, brushing crumbs from her lap. "I need to get going before the school gate jams up again."

Noel looked up. "Still having trouble with late students?"

She grabbed her handbag, eyes rolling with a half-smile. "Late students? Try late teachers." She kissed the top of Noel’s head as she passed. "Don’t forget to water that plant in your room. It survived this long, miracle as that is."

"I’ll do my best, Principal Mom," he teased.

From across the table, his father chuckled, folding up the last section of the paper. "Well, I’m off too. The new shipment of donated books came in last night. Might be a long day." He pushed back his chair with a quiet creak. "You want to come with?"

Noel shook his head gently. "Not today. I was thinking I’d go visit Grandma."

His mom, already near the door, paused. "You’re going to the village?"

"Yeah. Just for a few hours," he said, finishing the last of his tea. "Haven’t seen her in months."

His dad crossed his arms loosely, studying him. "Take the car then. It’s a long ride."

Noel smiled and stood. "I’ll take the bike. I want to feel the wind a little."

"It’s over thirty minutes, you know," his father said, but there was no resistance in his voice, just the soft push of care.

"I know." Noel walked over and gently squeezed his shoulder. "That’s part of the charm."

His mom turned back into the dining room and opened a side cupboard.

"Then at least take something for her." She pulled out a neat package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. "I was saving this to drop off later, but you can deliver it for me."

Noel took it from her hands carefully. "What is it?"

"Tea, dried mango, some balm for her knees... and those biscuits she always hides under the bed when guests come." She winked.

Noel laughed. "She’ll say she made them herself."

"That woman hasn’t baked since your father had hair," she said with a smirk.

"Hey," his dad protested mildly. "It’s called wisdom. Mine just grew inward."

The three of them shared another warm laugh, that unspoken kind—the kind that hummed beneath skin and memory.

His mom adjusted his collar like she used to when he was younger, fingers soft, careful. "Tell her I’ll come visit next week."

"I will."

His dad opened the front door, keys jingling. "Ride safely. If it starts raining, you call me. No arguments."

"Yes, Dad."

"And no racing trucks again."

"That was one time," Noel called as his father stepped out.

His mom stood at the door a moment longer, watching him.

Then, with a final smile, she blew him a kiss. "Go see your grandma. She misses your loud mouth."

He caught the kiss with a grin and placed it over his heart.

And just like that, the house gently emptied out again, leaving behind the faint aroma of breakfast and the warmth of being loved.