CHAPTER 151: MORNING WITH NOEL, NIGHT WITH JORDAN

The sharp buzz of his phone cut through the stillness, dragging Luca from a foggy half-dream.

He fumbled across the nightstand, squinting at the glowing screen. Noel Calling.

A small grin tugged at his lips before he swiped to answer.

"Get up, sleepyhead," Noel’s voice teased, warm and bright even through the crackle of the line.

Luca leaned back against the headboard, hair tousled, voice rough with sleep. "Did you... dream about me?"

A laugh spilled through the receiver, light and genuine. "Maybe. How else would I know you take forever to wake up?"

"Hey," Luca murmured, dragging a hand over his face. "I’m not that slow."

"Nope," Noel shot back, amusement laced in every word, "just slow enough to miss breakfast."

Luca swung his legs over the side of the bed, toes brushing against the cool floor. "I’ll make it up to you."

"You’d better," Noel replied, smug but soft. "I’m expecting pancakes."

The corner of Luca’s mouth curved as he stood, stretching until his back popped. A warmth settled in his chest, chasing away the last traces of sleep. "You got it. Extra syrup?"

"Obviously," Noel said, and Luca could hear the smile in his voice.

He crossed to the window, tugging the curtain back just enough to let in the early gold of morning.

Dust motes danced in the sunlight, the world outside just beginning to stir.

Luca lowered his voice, softer now, almost like a secret meant for only one person. "Morning, Noel."

There was a pause—just long enough for breath to travel the space between them.

"Morning, Luca," Noel answered, steady, certain, and it landed like a promise.

And just like that, the day began—quietly, softly, with the promise of something good.

The first week apart carried its own stillness.

For Noel, mornings began with the whistle of his mother’s kettle and the soft clink of porcelain on wood.

The air smelled of brewed tea and the faint musk of old books.

Most days, he joined his father at the family library, dusting shelves worn smooth by years of touch, watching sunlight stripe the wooden floor in long, patient lines.

But now and then, his gaze drifted past the glass—down the narrow street outside—as though some part of him expected a certain figure to be there.

At night, back in his old room, he’d lie across the bed, phone in hand... fingers hovering over Luca’s chat, typing and erasing the same sentence more than once.

Sometimes, he didn’t send it at all. Sometimes, the silence felt safer.

Half a city away, Luca’s mornings were sharper—coffee in a porcelain cup, the faint scent of polished oak lingering in the air, and the distant murmur of his father’s voice carrying from the study.

Most days, he stayed tucked in the quieter corners of the house—reading by the window, nursing his coffee on the balcony, scrolling through his phone until Noel’s name inevitably caught his eye.

He didn’t always call. But when he did, it was late—after the house had gone still, after the city outside his window had softened into shadow.

The balcony was Luca’s favorite part of the house—not because it was beautiful, though it was—but because it gave him distance.

From up here, the garden stretched below in neat patterns, shadows of the wrought-iron railing spilling across the marble tiles.

Beyond that, the city’s hum drifted up faintly—car horns softened by distance, voices fading into the warm evening air.

He leaned against the railing, one hand wrapped loosely around his coffee mug, watching as the last light bled out of the sky. The air was still, save for the faint rustle of leaves.

Then his phone buzzed against the table.

His chest lifted, quick and unguarded—Noel, he thought, already reaching for it.

But the name on the screen wasn’t Noel.

Jordan.

Luca sighed through his nose, but swiped to answer. "Hey."

"You sound thrilled to hear from me," Jordan’s voice came, amused.

"Just surprised," Luca said, settling back into the chair. "What’s up?"

"Meet me out tonight," Jordan said. "You need to get out of that house before you start growing moss."

"If this is a club thing, forget it," Luca replied without hesitation.

There was a beat of silence before Jordan snorted. "Still not used to this version of you. Back then, you never said no to a club."

"I know," Luca said simply, his tone even—no excuse, no regret.

Jordan chuckled. "Relax, man. No clubs. Just hanging out. Fresh air, some plays... normal human interaction."

Luca let the quiet stretch a moment, gaze drifting back to the garden. "Alright. Where?"

Jordan didn’t miss a beat. "The old place."

Luca leaned back in his chair, brows lifting. "The courts?"

"Yeah," Jordan said, a note of nostalgia slipping into his tone. "Haven’t been there since... what, senior year?"

"Probably," Luca murmured, glancing out past the balcony rail. He could almost see the sunlit lines of the court, the way the air smelled faintly of asphalt and summer grass back then.

"Figured we could knock a ball around, talk. Like before life got... you know."

"Complicated," Luca finished for him.

Jordan gave a short laugh. "Exactly. Just bring yourself—and maybe remember how to serve without breaking the net."

"That was one time."

"Uh-huh. Sure."

Luca shook his head, a faint smirk forming despite himself. "When?"

"Half an hour?" Jordan said. "I’ll drive."

"Fine," Luca replied, glancing at the darkening sky. "But if you’re late, I’m not waiting."

"You’ve gone soft, man," Jordan teased. "But I’ll be there."

The call ended, leaving the balcony quiet again—only now, the stillness carried a trace of old summers waiting to be revisited.

Luca stayed on the balcony for a while after the call ended, the fading light brushing gold against his skin.

The mug in his hand had gone lukewarm, but he didn’t notice until he set it down.

He rose, the chair legs scraping softly against the stone, and stepped back inside.

His room was cool and faintly scented with the cedar polish the staff used. He crossed to the wardrobe, pulling out a plain black T-shirt and light joggers—something easy, unassuming.

The suit from the gala still hung on the far side, its dark fabric catching the low light, but he didn’t look at it for long.

He dressed without hurry, rolling his shoulders once to loosen the day from them.

Downstairs, his footsteps echoed lightly on the polished wood. He slowed when he reached the main parlor—its quiet was different here, the kind that always made him feel observed even when the room was empty.

He took out his phone, thumb hovering for a second before typing:

Meeting up with Jordan at the court. No bar, I promise.

He waited a moment. The screen stayed blank.

A small exhale left him—half amusement, half something softer—before he slipped the phone back into his pocket.

Then he pushed open the front door, stepping into the evening air, letting it close behind him with a muted click.

Jordan’s car pulled up to the front gate just as the streetlights flickered on, throwing soft pools of light across the pavement.

Luca stepped out, hands in his pockets, the evening air cool against his arms. Jordan leaned over from the driver’s seat, grinning as the passenger door swung open.

"Didn’t think you’d actually come," Jordan said.

"Didn’t think you’d actually be on time," Luca replied, sliding in.

Jordan laughed as he pulled away from the curb. "Still sharp with the comebacks. Guess some things never change."

The city blurred past in muted colors, the low hum of the engine filling the space between them.

"Feels weird," Jordan said after a beat, eyes on the road. "We used to do this all the time. Just... drive somewhere for no reason."

"Back then we didn’t need a reason," Luca said, leaning his head lightly against the glass.

"True," Jordan said, a smile in his voice. "Though, if I remember right, the ’no reason’ usually turned into beer and bad decisions."

"That’s your version of nostalgia?" Luca asked, glancing at him.

Jordan shrugged, smirking. "What can I say? Those nights were fun."

Luca hummed in quiet agreement but didn’t add more, watching the streetlamps bend and stretch in the window’s reflection.

When they turned into the old neighborhood, the tennis courts came into view—tucked behind a low fence, the floodlights casting a pale glow over the cracked asphalt.

Jordan slowed, parking by the curb. "Look at that. Still standing."

"Barely," Luca said, though his tone carried a hint of something warmer.

They stepped out into the night air, the faint scent of cut grass lingering from the field beyond.

The sound of the chain-link gate squealed in greeting as Jordan pushed it open.

"Ready to embarrass yourself again?" Jordan teased.

Luca’s mouth curved slightly. "We’ll see."

The court spread before them, worn but familiar. Faded white lines cut across the cracked surface, and the net sagged slightly in the middle like an old memory refusing to let go.

For a moment, Luca just stood there, inhaling the scent of asphalt warmed by the day and cooled by night.

The air buzzed faintly with cicadas, and he thought—strangely, unexpectedly—of Noel.

Of how he might’ve laughed at the state of the place, teased Luca for once being the boy who practically lived on these courts.

But Noel wasn’t here. Jordan was.

And that was a different kind of history, waiting to be stirred.