His coffee sits in front of him, and I wonder how long he's been sitting there, watching the entrance, waiting.
He's dressed differently than yesterday, less formal. He's wearing dark jeans and a charcoal henley that fits him the way expensive clothes do, like they were made for his body specifically. It pulls across his shoulders when he shifts, revealing the edge of a tattoo under his sleeve, something dark and ornate that disappears under the fabric.
Our eyes meet through the glass, and heat twists low in my stomach—uncomfortable, unwelcome.
He doesn't smile or wave. He watches me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
I push the door open and walk inside, heart hammering.
He stands as I approach—not the casual half-rise some men do, but a full stand, like I'm something that requires his complete attention, like I'm worth the effort of good manners even though everything else about him screams danger.
"Francesca."
The way he says my name makes me shiver. Not Frankie. My full name, drawn out like he's savoring every syllable.
"Luca." I slide into the booth across from him, and he sits back down, but his eyes never leave my face. "Am I late?"
“You're exactly on time. I was early. I didn't want to keep you waiting."
I glance at my phone. Just when we'd agreed to meet.
He's been tracking my arrival that closely.
"Good habit," he continues, still watching me. "Punctuality."
He has a coffee waiting for me. I didn't tell him how I take it, but as I take a sip, I realize he got my order right.
"So," I say, because someone has to start and he seems content to stare at me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. "Do you find it odd that you happened to be there last night? Are you following me?"
It's supposed to be a joke, light and teasing, but the words come out sharper than I intended. More accusatory.
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't laugh it off. He tilts his head slightly, considering.
"Would it matter?" he asks.
The question catches me off guard. Not would it bother me—would it matter. Like my feelings are irrelevant compared to the fact itself.
"That's not an answer."
"You didn't ask a question. You made an accusation." His mouth curves, just barely. Not quite a smile. "If you want to know something, Francesca, ask me directly."
I lean back, reassessing. He doesn't deflect or make a joke or smooth over the tension like most men would. Luca sits there, utterly calm, waiting to see what I'll do.
"Are you following me?"
"Not right now." He says it like it's the literal truth, which means?—
"But you have been."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't deny it either."
I wrap my hands around the coffee mug. It's too hot to drink yet, but the warmth grounds me.
I take a sip anyway. Just right. The way I always drink it at home, alone, when no one's watching.
I glance at him over the rim of the cup. He's already watching me, waiting.
