Loud Table

We finally leave Felix's place, the night still warm from the sun's leftover heat. His hoodie clings to my frame like a secret I haven't figured out how to return, and he doesn't say a word about it. He just walks beside me, hands in his pockets, whistling something off-key. A little smug. A little too pleased with himself.

The Spanish restaurant is glowing like a gem on the corner of the street—gold lights, red brick, and hand-painted signs in flowing script. It smells like grilled garlic, roasted peppers, and melted cheese from a block away.

"This place," I say, already smiling. "Julia and I come here all the time."

Felix raises an eyebrow. "You're telling me this isn't some secret romantic date spot?"

"Don't flatter yourself," I shoot back, nudging his arm. "She's swears this is the only restaurant in the city that actually gets it right. No fusion nonsense. Just actual, original recipes."

Felix nods appreciatively. "Respect."