Emma shakes her head slowly, denying me the answer I’ve needed for years.
And just like that?—
My heart breaks.
Again.
"Your home is beautiful," I say, changing the subject, trying to slice through the tension hanging between us.
There are some questions Ican’tanswer—and I’m surprised when he doesn’t push.
Why doesn’t he? I wonder.
"Want a tour?" he offers, that sly little smile tugging at his mouth.
I swear I almost murdered Karen earlier when she threw herself at him. I’ve never felt that kind of red-hot rage in my life. And the worst part? Iknewhe was doing it on purpose. Testing me. Watching to see if I still get jealous.
Well. He got his answer.
Luca stands and holds out his hand to me. I stare at it for a moment, his palm, his fingers. They’re different now. Broader, callused, more worn with time. But still his. I grab it, firm and certain, and rise with him.
I want to say it doesn’t feel like it’s beenyearssince we held hands like this.
I want to tell him I want to stay in this moment—just us, no past, no pain.
But I can’t, not after what I found in that drawer. A drawer full of…us. It didn’t feel like snooping. It felt like bleeding. Because just like me, he never moved on. He held onto the wreckage. And I wanted to scream thatI never meant to hurt him. That Idid it for him. For us. And it destroyed me, too.
We walk into the house, still hand in hand. Jack trots beside us, tail wagging like he knows this is an important mission.
The place is out of a movie. Modern. Calm. Impeccably organized. Basically, my Pinterest board in real life. Too bad my real-life chaos would never survive here.
I never doubted he’d make it. And this house—this stunning view, this polished kitchen, these oceanfront windows—is the proof.
"This is where I train," he says, opening what looks like a seamless wall panel.
The gym is fully mirrored, probably bigger than the fitness center in my apartment complex.
At the back, hidden behind glass, is a tree. Medium-sized, delicate. Its twisting branches lit from above, surrounded by blue stones and soft light. It’s like a Zen Garden, only cooler.
"Wow…" I whisper, staring.
He’s not looking at the tree, though. He’s watchingmewith a look that makes it hard to breathe.
"I practice jiu-jitsu every morning," he says proudly, clearing his throat.
I step closer to the tree. The roots curl above the soil, crowned with smooth, blue stones.
"I’m not surprised." I smile. "You were obsessed with Bruce Lee. You had those ridiculous shirts with his face on them."
"Your memory’s good." He chuckles. "But Bruce Lee did kung fu. Not jiu-jitsu."
I turn and glare.
He laughs—deep and real—and takes my hand again. "Come on. There’s more."
He walks me through every part of the house, narrating with this childlike excitement that stirs something warm in my chest. Hewantsme to see what he’s built. To be proud of him.
"Lauren told me Silas has a place in Manhattan," I tease. "Do you two compete over real estate, too?"
