Twinkling paper lanterns bobbed gently above the rooftop, casting warm circles of light across the weathered wood table and lemon trees that lined the edges like quiet sentinels.
Lina Hart stood still for a moment, taking it all in.
String quartet in the corner. Wind chimes swaying in rhythm. Bruce Chen holding two glasses of Sicilian red, his easy smile dimpling as he gestured for her to sit.
“You really didn't have to do all this," she said, lips curling despite herself.
“Didn't have to," Bruce replied, offering her a glass. “Wanted to."
She took it, fingers brushing his. A subtle spark passed between them—no fire, just a flicker of something gently unfolding.
—
Over rosemary dumplings and roasted sea bass, they talked.
About everything and nothing.
About Elias's gruff wisdom. A
