His voice is deep, calming.
Nothing is out of place. Even our clothes from last night are gone. Luca keeps everything neat.
Curious, I get up and head to the door of his walk-in closet. And just as I suspected—Luca is completely OCD.
The space isn’t massive, but every white and black shirt is hanging evenly spaced along the walls. There’s a shelf displaying shoes like they’re trophies, a section with ties and bowties, gym clothes, duffel bags, backpacks, luggage… everything is there, but nothing tells me who Luca Walker is or what he actually does.
"Snooping through my closet, little lamb?" His voice booms from the doorway.
I try not to look guilty and just keep strolling. "There’s nothing out of place," I say, running my hand along the sleeves of his white shirts.
"Nope."
"Ana María does a good job," I add with a half-smile.
Luca stands under the doorframe, so tall his head nearly grazes it. A towel is slung low on his hips, dangerously low, and that V-shaped muscle on his abdomen is basically pointing me to sin.
Control yourself, Emma. He’s not a piece of meat.
He drops the towel as he walks past me—because of course he does—and bends to grab underwear from a drawer.
"That’s what you wear to lounge around the house?"
"Nope," he says casually, pulling on a black t-shirt. "When I’m comfortable at home, I’m naked."
Oh.Damn it.
"But don’t worry, I won’t do that to you. Especially when you can’t stop staring at my ass."
He laughs.
"You can’t blame me. I know women who’d commit crimes for that ass."
"I’m aware." He pulls on black sweatpants and walks toward me.
My hair’s still damp from the shower—I told him to stay back because, well, I’m sore and I knew we wouldn’t behave otherwise.
He brushes a strand behind my ear, eyes tracing the movement.
"Have you ever felt even a fraction of what we had… with anyone else?" he whispers.
That question has haunted me ever since I saw him again. I’m not sure why—maybe it’s masochism, maybe self-sabotage—but I’ve needed to know the answer just as much as he does.
"Never," I say, just as softly. Maybe we’re whispering because we both know how much this can hurt. "And you?"
Luca slowly shakes his head. His fingers move, brushing my hair over my shoulder. "My therapist tried to get me to move on, to stop comparing every woman to you. But, Emma…" He swallows hard. "How do you compare a masterpiece to a knockoff? A connection like ours wasn’t meant to be replaced."
"Except for what I did."
"Except for that." He steps back, like he’s just remembered why I broke him in the first place. He takes a deep breath,clearing his throat. "Want to see how the outside world’s doing?" he asks, reaching for my hand and leading me out of the closet.
Luca used to hold my hand just like this in high school, like it was his personal duty to get me from class to class. I never complained—I loved being close to him.
"Yes. But Luca” I stop us mid-step "—I would never hurt you like that again. You know that, right?"
During the drive, we pass street after street littered with the storm’s chaos—palm fronds scattered like broken ribs, trash cans tipped over, puddles swallowing entire sidewalks.
I’m still wearing his clothes. I told him I’d return them, but he just smirked and said they were mine now.
