The café is too loud for a weeknight. Enrico is in the back booth, one arm along the top of the seat, not really in the conversation.

Marisa is half in his space anyway. Knee against his. Fingers at the open collar of his shirt, twisting the chain there like she bought it.

she says.

She laughs and settles closer under his arm. Easy. Like the seat is hers, and so is he.

Alvise clocks the lag from the other side of the table. Doesn’t call it. Just looks at his phone.

Enrico’s mouth tips, almost in the right place.

Iacopo snorts into his drink.

His eyes aren’t on them.

You are at the counter, waiting on a drink, bag slipping off one shoulder. Not looking over. Just in line. Marisa’s nail runs his collarbone, proprietary, bored with her own story and not bored with touching him. She doesn’t follow his eyes.

she says.

Iacopo repeats, grinning.

Something hits the tile by the counter. Small. A set of keys, maybe, slid out of the open bag when you shift it. You don’t clock it. The line moves.

Alvise sees his face change and still doesn’t say it. Iacopo is halfway through a story about the roof being closed last time. Marisa’s palm is flat on Enrico’s chest like the night is already settled.

she says.

He hasn’t looked at her in a full minute.

Iacopo blinks.

Enrico is already sitting forward. The keys are still on the tile. You take the cup, turn toward the door, and don’t see them.

Marisa’s hand stays where it is.

He stands anyway.