Alden

Alden was with Luca.

And Alden loved Luca.

Chosen, reached for first, kept within arm’s distance even when there were other options. Alden understood Luca’s pace—the confidence, the improvisation, the way decisions were made mid-motion.

Pane toscano. A pinch of salt. Flour, water, time, and Luca insisting that anything more would be disrespectful. The oven was already hot - and in hindsight, hotter than necessary.

The pane toscano rapidly achieved a level of commitment rarely seen in bread.

There was a sound. A conclusive sound.

The kind of sound that suggests a boundary has been crossed and is not interested in being uncrossed.

Luca said something that translated, roughly, to “it’s fine.”

It was not.

A second fire was started while addressing the first, which felt unnecessary but thorough.

This is generally where events choose a direction. This one chose escalation. Between the first and the second fire, they created what several people would later describe as “a dynamic environment”.

Eventually, as all events must, this one concluded. Not cleanly. Not quietly. But conclusively.

The bread was removed and described, with great confidence, as “rustic,” which, in this context, meant “irreversible.”

Luca set Alden down.

Looked at him.

Considered.

Nodded.

Alden was still with him.

Handle slightly darker.

The matter was, as Luca later explained to anyone who asks,

handled.