A warm, familiar presence settled into the space on the bench right beside Y/n. Not opposite, not with a polite gap. Close enough that a cedar-and-bergamot scent, touched with the faintest whisper of smoke, wrapped around them.

His knee brushed against theirs under the table. A casual, constant point of contact. His fingers, adorned with a few simple silver rings, reached past them for the toast rack, his arm briefly encircling their space.

Lorenzo, sitting next to Mattheo, offered Y/n a small, warm smile over his teacup. He nudged a small bowl of fresh berries toward the center of the table.

Before Y/n could move, Theo’s hand—the one not holding his toast—drifted to the small of their back, a firm, possessive press that lasted only a second before he withdrew, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He turned his head, his sleepy blue eyes meeting theirs, a question in them that he didn't voice.