No Reservations For Love

Two years later.

Somewhere in southern Italy, nestled between olive groves and judgmental cats, there sat a tiny bakery called "Senza Prenotazioni" - No Reservations.

Owned and operated by:

Chef William Ferraro, who made pastries so good people proposed mid-bite

And Est Winters, ex-YouTuber turned espresso-pulling husband with the world's sassiest apron collection

They lived in the apartment above the shop, where the windows were always open and the scent of fresh bread woke them up like a kiss.

Est had started vlogging again - not for followers, but for fun. His new series, "Life With My Husband the Dough Whisperer," was mostly chaotic shots of William swatting flour at him, Est burning toast, and small-town aunties aggressively matchmaking them with babies they did not yet want.

Their fanbase? Obsessed.

Their merch? Sold out.

Their marriage?

Well...

William came into the kitchen one morning wearing nothing but boxer briefs and an apron that said, "Bite Me (I'm Freshly Baked)."

Est filmed it.

"No," William said, holding up a croissant like a weapon.

"Yes," Est replied. "We are giving the people what they want."

"You mean me."

Est leaned in. "Always."

He got croissant-crumbs on his face and a kiss that tasted like butter and belonging.

Every Sunday, they closed the shop early and cooked dinner for the entire village.

William did the pasta. Est set things on fire. Nonna sent judgment from video calls and demanded babies at regular intervals.

They had none yet - but they had each other. They had a life built out of late-night laughter, morning bread, and love that rose slow, steady, and strong.

One quiet night, after a long day of baking and making out behind the cannoli counter, Est lay with his head in William's lap, watching stars blink over terracotta rooftops.

"Think we'll ever get bored?" Est murmured.

William ran a hand through his hair. "Only if you stop being the most chaotic, gorgeous, flour-covered disaster I've ever loved."

Est smiled.

"I can promise you I'll always be a disaster."

"Then we're safe."

They clinked wine glasses. A pigeon cooed from the windowsill.

Est groaned. "Is that the same damn pigeon from New York?"

William sipped his wine. "He's got good taste."

They kissed.

And somewhere between the smell of bread, the clink of glasses, and the flutter of stupid bird wings, Est realized-

No reservations was never just a restaurant policy.

It was how they lived. Loved. Stayed.

Forever.

-THE END-