Sunday Plans
They brought tacos home in grease-stained paper bags, ate them on the balcony as the sun finished setting.
Luca had ordered too much again—five tacos when he could realistically eat three. Noel didn't comment, just helped him finish the extras.
"Good?" Noel asked.
"Perfect." Luca wiped his hands on a napkin, leaned back in his chair. "Beach, tacos, you. Best anniversary celebration."
"Setting the bar low for future years."
"Setting realistic expectations."
The cat appeared in the doorway, assessed their dinner remains with clear judgment, and meowed his disapproval.
"You had your dinner," Noel told him.
The cat meowed louder.
"Ignore him," Luca said. "He's manipulating you."
"I'm aware."
But Noel still tossed a small piece of chicken toward him. He caught it, ate it in two bites, and immediately demanded more.
"Spoiled," Luca observed.
"Wonder whose fault that is."
"Definitely yours."
They cleaned up together, tossed the trash, rinsed their hands.
