My mouth goes dry. I can't find words, can't find the presence of mind to tell him this is too much, too fast, too intense.
Instead, I sit frozen, barely breathing, while his fingers trail down my jaw and fall away.
When we finally leave, the sun is already low on the horizon, casting long shadows across MacDougal Street. He walks mehome again, and I let him, even though I know the way and I've walked these streets a thousand times alone.
But this time feels different. He's standing closer now than he was last night, not touching but near enough that his cologne reaches me—something clean and expensive with an edge of danger underneath.
When someone jostles past me on the sidewalk, his hand goes to the small of my back—protective, possessive, proprietary—and doesn't move away even after the threat has passed.
We stop outside my building, same as last night.
"Thank you," I say. "For coffee. And for walking me home. Again."
"I'll always walk you home." He says it like a promise and a threat all at once.
He's standing close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body in the cold January air.
I think he's going to kiss me. The air between us crackles with expectation. I tilt my face up slightly, just in case, and hold my breath.
His gaze drops to my mouth. Stays there. His jaw clenches like he's fighting himself, and when he lifts his eyes back to mine, the hunger in them makes my knees weak.
But he doesn't kiss me.
He reaches out slowly, giving me time to pull away, and runs his thumb across my bottom lip. The touch is feather-light, reverent, and absolutely devastating.
"Not yet," he murmurs, so quiet I almost don't hear it. "When I kiss you, Francesca, you're going to be ready for it."
Then he steps back, and the absence of his heat feels like a loss.
"Goodnight, Francesca."
"Goodnight, Luca."
I watch him walk away until he turns the corner and disappears, and only then do I realize I'm shaking.
The walk up to my apartment feels longer than usual, and by the time I let myself in, my heart is pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with the stairs. My mind is still replaying that moment outside—the way Luca looked at me, the way he touched me, the absolute certainty in his voice when he said when, not if.
I collapse on my couch, still wearing my coat.
Relief should be flooding through me—he didn't kiss me, didn't push for more, didn't try to come inside. But all I feel is the shadow of his thumb on my lip and the certainty in his voice when he saidwhen, notif.
I kick off my boots and try to convince myself that disappointment is better than the alternative, that taking things slow is smart, that I'm being rational and careful and all the things a woman should be when she meets a man who's clearly dangerous.
It doesn't work.
I change into pajamas, wash my face, brush my teeth, and try to settle in for the night even though it's still early. I'm off tomorrow too, so there's no early shift to prepare for, no reason to force myself into bed at a reasonable hour.
I make tea. Chamomile, because it's supposed to help you sleep, though it never really works for me.
The thought makes me pause, mug halfway to my lips.
I set the tea down and look around my apartment. Everything looks normal. Same mess I left this morning, same stack of mail on the counter, same throw blanket draped over the back of the couch.
Everything seems fine but something is wrong, I’ve been getting that wrong feeling for a while if I’m honest with myself.
My pulse picks up.
I check the front door. Locked, deadbolt engaged. I check the windows. All closed, latched from the inside. The fire escape window is locked too, the old-fashioned kind that needs a key I keep on my keychain.
