Miles away, I think of her touching that same hand right now, remembering, wondering.
Falling.
And when I see her again, I'll catch her.
4
FRANCESCA
Iwake up thinking about him.
Not the mugging. Not the guy who tried to grab my purse or the adrenaline crash that left me shaking for an hour afterward. Just him. Luca. The way he moved—fast and controlled, like violence was a language he spoke fluently. The way his voice went soft when he asked if I was hurt, rough around the edges but careful, like he was trying not to spook a wounded animal.
The way I recognized him from the ER and he didn't even flinch.
I roll over and check my phone. Early—too early, hours before my alarm. I stare at the ceiling, trying to talk myself out of what I'm about to do.
It doesn't work.
I grab my laptop from the nightstand and open it in bed, the glow harsh in the pre-dawn dark. Google search: Luca Tribeca construction.
I find nothing useful. Just a few construction companies, some news articles about real estate development, but no one named Luca who fits.
I try again: Luca New York construction accident.
I get the same result. Nothing.
I narrow it down, add keywords, try variations. Luca contractor, Luca builder, Luca Manhattan. I even try the ER admission date from months back, cross-referencing it with local news about workplace accidents.
I still find nothing.
That bothers me more than it should. Everyone has a digital footprint these days. Social media, professional profiles, something. But Luca doesn't exist online, and that means either he's incredibly private or he's hiding.
I close the laptop and set it aside. I've got hours before I'm supposed to meet him for coffee, but I'm not going back to sleep. My brain won't shut off, won't stop replaying last night, won't stop asking questions I don't want to answer—like why a guy with a gunshot wound in his shoulder months ago just happened to be walking through the Village at the exact moment I got mugged. Like why he looked at me in that café the way starving men look at food. Like why I said yes to coffee when every instinct I have is screaming that this is a bad idea.
The shower helps—hot water, cheap shampoo, and five minutes of not thinking about anything except getting clean. When I get out, I feel almost human again.
I make coffee and try to figure out what to wear. It's just meeting for coffee. Casual. No big deal.
Except I try on multiple outfits before I settle on jeans and a sweater, and even then I'm not sure. The sweater is soft, dark green, and fits well enough that I don't look like I'm trying too hard but not so well that I look like I'm trying at all. I pair it with my good jeans, the ones without holes, and my nicest boots.
Then I look in the mirror and feel ridiculous.
This is stupid. I'm being stupid. He lied about how he got shot—told me it was a construction accident when it clearly wasn't. He's too calm, too controlled, too comfortable withviolence. He showed up at exactly the right moment to save me, which is either the luckiest coincidence in the world or something else entirely.
But I don't cancel.
I change my sweater twice more, settle on a different one that's almost identical to the first, and tell myself I'm going because it's just coffee and I'm a grown woman who can have coffee with whoever she wants.
I don't mention the part where his hand on my arm last night felt strong and sure, or how his eyes tracked every movement I made like I was the only thing worth watching.
We agreed on early afternoon. By the time I leave my apartment, I've changed clothes more times than I want to admit and second-guessed this decision even more.
I walk to Café Reggio because the subway feels too crowded and I need air, need space to think. The Village is quieter at this hour, the lunch rush over, fewer people on the streets. I pass the spot where it happened last night and my pulse kicks up, but I don't stop. I keep walking until I'm standing outside the café, staring through the window like I'm trying to decide whether to go in.
He's already there.
Not just there—waiting. He's sitting in the corner booth, the same one as last night, and he’s looking at the door. At me. Like he knew the exact moment I'd arrive.
