The sun leaned lazily westward, casting soft gold over the village rooftops and painting long shadows under the awnings of the small eatery.
The scent of warm rice, grilled herbs, and the earthy breath of summer lingered in the air. Laughter drifted from the nearby market stalls—children's squeals, distant bargaining, the creak of a wheelbarrow.
Billy sat still in his seat, a little flushed from the meal and the company, but mostly from the heat curling at the back of his neck.
Across the table, Artur chewed slowly, his brow slightly furrowed like he was deep in thought, though his eyes occasionally flicked toward Billy with something softer than he ever said aloud.
Jay, now lounging sideways in his chair like a cat on a windowsill, let out a long, theatrical sigh.
"This place hasn't changed one bit. Still the best soup. Still the slowest service. And still not enough people appreciating how good I look."
Artur didn't even look up. "You sound just like last year."
