I grip the steering wheel tighter than I should, and drive away.
I shouldn’t feel this way, not after all this time. Not after the mess I made when I left him behind.
But I do. My gut is sour when I get home, and my pulse is erratic. I don’t want to go upstairs. I don’t want to see anyone. I park around back, cut the engine, and head straight for the basement gym. No shower, no pause. Just rage.
The punching bag hangs in the far corner. I quickly wrap my hands tight, ignoring the sting where old callouses haven’t healed. I’m halfway through the first round—jabs, uppercuts, a right hook that nearly knocks the chain loose—when I hear the clang of a weight plate being re-racked.
“You’re gonna break your wrist doing that.”
I turn my head mid-swing, sweat stinging my eyes, and find Luca standing near the benchpress, arms crossed over his chest and still in his practice shorts. His hair’s damp, blond strandssticking to his forehead, and there’s a half-empty Gatorade bottle in his hand.
“Fuck off, Devereaux,” I mutter, teeth gritted as I swing back to the bag, fists throbbing from the repeated impact.
But he doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch. Of course, he doesn’t. That’s Luca—annoyingly persistent.
Instead, he steps in without another word, wedges his hands against the sides of the bag, and leans his weight into it, steadying it with practiced ease. He plants his feet and locks his gaze on the battered leather. It’s the kind of quiet, no-bullshit help I’ve come to expect from him. He doesn’t push. He just holds the bag and lets me burn it all out.
By the time I’m done, I’m bent over at the waist, hands braced on my thighs, dripping sweat. My lungs are burning, chest rising and falling, and my skin’s tacky with a mix of adrenaline and the kind of emotional whiplash I haven’t felt in years.
Luca wipes his palms on a towel and tosses me a bottle of water from the mini fridge. The plastic lands with a soft thud on the bench beside me. “You wanna talk about it?” he asks, picking up his Gatorade.
I twist the cap off and take a long drink, the cold water hitting my throat hard enough to make my eyes water. “Not really,” I manage, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
He shrugs, then tosses the towel over his shoulder and leans back against the wall. “Cool. I’ll just stand here and look pretty until you crack.”
I shoot him a glare, grabbing the towel to mop sweat off my face. “You always this annoying after leg day?”
“Only when a close friend is clearly losing their shit over something and trying not to say it,” Luca fires back, raising an eyebrow. He uncaps his Gatorade and takes a lazy sip, like he’s got nowhere else to be.
I curse under my breath and run a hand through my damp hair, dragging sweat back off my forehead. “It’s nothing,” I say.
“Sure,” Luca says slowly, humoring me. “Except you’re down here beating the shit out of a punching bag like it owes you money.”
I give a rough laugh, dropping down onto the bench nearby, elbows planted on my knees. My fists are still shaking a little as I unwind the wrap. “It’s not a big deal. Just… saw something earlier.”
He nods, not pushing.
I stare at my hands, knuckles bruised, before finally spitting it out. “I saw Noah with Adrian. They were laughing, and he looked… happy.”
Luca comes over, sits beside me, stretching his legs out in front of him. He bumps my shoulder lightly with his own. “So? That’s not a bad thing. Red’s a good guy.”
“I know that,” I murmur. “It’s not a bad thing. I want him to be happy.”
Luca quirks an eyebrow, studying my face for a second too long. “But?”
I exhale, the sound scraping in my throat. “But I hate that I’m not the reason he’s smiling like that.”
Luca hums thoughtfully, twisting his Gatorade cap back and forth. “You in love with him?”
I don’t answer directly. Maybe I don’t have to.
“You’re jealous,” he says without an ounce of doubt when I still don’t respond. “It’s fine. I’ve been there.”
I turn to him, brow furrowed. Luca, jealous? I can’t ever see that happening. “When?”
He exhales, the memory pulling his gaze down to his feet. “You remember that party before I got clean? The one where you left with Sage?”
I’m about to tell him no when the memory slams into me so fast I almost choke. “Shit.”
