The cheerful clatter of plates filled the small kitchen, not because Luca was genuinely careless, but because he wanted Noel to know he was suffering—and he wanted that suffering to be heard.
He stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, wielding the yellow sponge like it was some kind of weapon he'd been forced to carry into battle.
"This is cruelty," he muttered, running the sponge over a ceramic plate in slow, exaggerated, sulky circles. "Pure, calculated cruelty."
From the small kitchen table, Noel leaned back in his chair, watching him with an expression that hovered perfectly between fond exasperation and open affection. "You're acting like I asked you to chop wood for the winter."
"Wood doesn't squeak in protest," Luca countered, lifting the plate dramatically to inspect his own distorted reflection in its wet, glossy surface. "Listen—do you hear that? It's the sound of porcelain begging for mercy."
