CHAPTER 145: CHEF DAD & SILENT FATHER

Morning light slipped through Luca’s curtains, soft but uninvited, pooling across his tangled sheets.

One of his arms dangled off the edge of the bed, the other tucked beneath his cheek.

A vibration buzzed on the nightstand.

Luca stirred slightly, groaned, then rolled over—his hair sticking up like a bird’s nest.

He squinted at the phone, barely cracking one eye open as he reached for it.

The message lit up the screen:

Good morning, sleepyhead. You drooled a little, by the way.

Luca blinked, reread it, and let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. "Rude," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

He turned on his back and stared at the ceiling for a second, the faint remnants of the night’s video call making him smile without realizing it.

The soft glow of the phone screen reflected in his eyes as he began typing his reply.

Lies. I do not drool. Also, I didn’t sleep well because someone’s voice kept echoing in my dreams.

He hovered a moment, added a yawning emoji, then hit send.

He stretched like a cat, scratched his head, and padded toward the sink.

Luca stepped out of his room, barefoot and still tugging a shirt over his head.

The house was unusually quiet.

No distant voice calling for coffee, no rustling newspapers, no clinking from the kitchen.

He padded down the hallway, blinking against the sunlight spilling through the wide windows.

When he reached the dining room, the table was already set—silverware placed just right, steam rising gently from the plates.

His father was gone. The quiet confirmed it.

Luca slid into his seat and grabbed a fork, not bothering with formality.

The eggs were warm, the toast buttered to the edges—simple, but good.

He ate slowly, still half-sleepy, the weight of dreams lingering behind his eyes.

Footsteps approached.

He glanced up.

The housemaid entered, holding something over her arm.

An expensive-looking suit—charcoal gray, sharp cuts, silk lining that caught the light.

She stopped beside the table and offered it out without meeting his gaze. "Your father asked me to give you this."

Luca paused mid-bite, brows twitching slightly. He stared at the suit, then at her. "Why?"

"I... don’t know." Her voice was honest. "He just said to make sure you get it before noon."

She waited a second, as if expecting him to react, then quietly stepped away.

Luca set down his fork and reached for the fabric. It was smooth beneath his fingers, the kind of suit that didn’t come off a rack.

His fingers traced the silk lining, stopping at the monogram—L.E.V. It sat there like a quiet statement, waiting for him to answer a question he didn’t remember being asked.

He didn’t say anything, just stared at it for a moment longer.

Then slowly, he leaned back in his chair, suit still in hand.The morning light clung to Luca’s room.

Miles away, sunlight was already spilling across Noel’s kitchen table.

Noel tossed the mop aside with a grin just as his mom straightened up, stretching her back.

"That’s enough," she said, fanning herself with a rag. "We’ll finish the rest later."

"I think we’ve earned breakfast," Noel replied, brushing his hands off on his shorts.

From the kitchen, a familiar voice called out, "You two better be hungry!"

Noel’s eyes lit up. "Dad’s done?"

His mom nodded toward the dining area. "Go sit. He’s been showing off in there since six."

Noel chuckled as he padded toward the table.

The table waited for them, warmth and the scent of pepper and butter curling in the air.

His dad emerged moments later, carrying a tray like he owned a restaurant. "Presentation is everything," he declared, carefully setting down the dishes.

Noel leaned over the plate, sniffing dramatically. "Smells like cholesterol and love."

His dad gave him a look. "Smells like years of experience, thank you very much."

"You’re glowing," Noel teased. "If this tastes as good as it smells, I might start calling you ’Chef Dad.’"

"Start?" his dad huffed, sitting across from him. "You should’ve been calling me that since your first solid food."

Noel picked up a fork, twirling it in anticipation. "Alright then, Chef Dad. Let’s see what you got."

His mom joined them, sliding into her seat with a smirk. "Don’t be too honest, Noel. He’s sensitive."

Noel laughed and took the first bite—warm, soft, a perfect blend of flavors.

He blinked. "Okay, wait. This is actually... kind of amazing."

His dad raised a brow, smug. "Kind of?"

"Alright, alright. You win," Noel said, still chewing. "But I’m not doing the dishes."

His dad scoffed. "I make the food, your mom cleans the house, and you eat like a king. This arrangement is too generous."

"You love it," Noel mumbled through another bite, grinning.

They lingered around the table, the clinking of cutlery soft against the quiet morning hum.

Noel reached for a second helping while his dad topped off his own cup of tea.

A minute passed before his mom suddenly checked her watch. "Oh no—I’m late!"

She stood so fast her chair scraped. "You two, clean up after yourselves!" she called, already rushing off toward her room.

"Don’t forget your ID card this time!" Noel teased, mouth still half-full.

"I swear, you’re just like your father," she shot back over her shoulder with a laugh. "Too many opinions, not enough help."

"Hey!" both Noel and his dad said at once.

They shared a look, then burst into matching grins.

A moment later, his dad leaned back slightly in his chair, eyeing Noel.

"You heading out today?"

Noel shook his head, still chewing. "Nah. I’m coming with you."

His dad blinked, a little surprised. "To the library?"

"Yeah," Noel said, casually scooping the last bite from his plate. "Thought I’d hang around there today... Maybe do some sketching or just help you shelve."

His dad gave a small smile, that quiet kind that said more than words. "Alright. Haven’t had my boy tagging along in a while."

Noel looked at him, then smirked. "Try not to cry about it, old man."

His dad chuckled as he stood and started gathering the plates. "You wash, I rinse."

"Deal," Noel said, rising to follow him. "And just for the record—your food slapped."

"That’s the only compliment I need for the day," his dad replied, handing him a soapy sponge.

The plates clinked gently as Noel stacked them by the sink, rolling up his sleeves.

His dad stood beside him, turning on the tap and adjusting the water temperature like a man preparing for battle.

"No fancy drying tricks today, alright?" Noel said, reaching for the sponge.

His dad smirked. "That was one time, and the plate didn’t even break."

"It shattered like a glass slipper," Noel laughed, elbowing him playfully.

Water splashed over the edge, making them both step back.

They paused, then exchanged a guilty look like kids caught in the act, before laughing under their breath.

His mom rushed past the kitchen in heels, a bag swinging off her shoulder. "I’m off! Try not to drown the kitchen, yeah?"

"Bye, Mom!" Noel called out.

"Be safe!" his dad added. Then lower, to Noel, "You think she’ll actually eat lunch today?"

Noel raised an eyebrow. "Doubt it."

They finished washing in comfortable rhythm—rinsing, drying, stacking.

No rush, just the simple quiet of a morning shared.

As the last plate clinked into the cupboard, his dad grabbed his canvas bag by the door and tossed Noel his hoodie. "Ready?"

Noel caught it midair. "Let’s go."

Outside, the sun was already climbing, a golden warmth settling over the quiet street.

Noel zipped up halfway and shoved his hands in his pockets as they walked side by side toward the library.

Neither of them talked much at first. The quiet didn’t feel empty—just familiar.

Like the air between two people who didn’t need to fill every second.

Halfway down the road, his dad said softly, "You don’t have to come along just to keep me company, you know."

"I’m not," Noel replied without looking at him. "I just like being there."

His dad smiled, the kind of smile that creased gently into his eyes. "Alright then."

They turned the corner together, the library sign coming into view up ahead—weather-worn but still standing tall.

Their shoes tapped quietly against the pavement, the soft crunch of dry leaves beneath each step.

The neighborhood was still settling into morning—shutters creaked open, a dog barked in the distance, a woman swept dust off her front porch with quiet focus.

Noel glanced sideways. "Do you ever get tired of walking the same street every day?"

His dad took a deep breath, letting the air stretch in his lungs. "Nope. Same street, different thoughts."

Noel smiled at that. "That’s very librarian of you."

"I take that as a compliment."

The breeze carried the smell of someone frying something sweet—maybe pancakes, or those little puff-puffs Noel remembered from a neighbor’s stand.

His stomach wasn’t hungry, but the scent still tugged something soft inside him.

A cyclist passed by slowly, nodding at them.

His dad raised a hand in return, the kind of simple familiarity that seemed to come with age and time spent in one place.

As they neared the street corner, the library’s roof peeked from behind the trees—its edges curved like it had grown tired over the years but kept standing out of pride.

"There it is," his dad said, not looking at the building but at Noel, like it meant more to him that he was still walking beside him.

They crossed the final stretch in silence, their shadows long beside them.

Noel stepped ahead and pushed open the gate, letting it swing back slowly for his dad to follow.

The library sat nestled between old trees, its front steps worn smooth by years of coming and going.

There was something about it—quiet, weathered, and sturdy—that always made Noel feel like he could breathe deeper here.

As they climbed the steps, his dad’s hand brushed the wooden railing like he always did—some old habit he never explained.

Noel pulled the door open, holding it like muscle memory.

The scent of old books wrapped around them as they stepped inside.

Soft light spilled across rows of shelves, and in the far corner, a clock ticked like a heartbeat.

They were home again.