Chapter 23 You’ll see.
Today we’re celebrating one year together, and we’ve started planning our future.
The plan is perfect: I’ll sell my art to all those snobby collectors who think they’ve just discovered the next big thing, and Luca said he’ll work part-time doing whatever, assuming his dad cuts him off entirely for the decision we’ve made.
With that money, we can get by until we finish college and finally head out into the world.
Maybe we’ll even travel—both of us want to see Europe.
He says he wants to go to the capital of philosophy, Athens, and walk the same ground Aristotle once walked.
If it means seeing him happy, I’d do absolutely anything.
Simple as that.
Now I’m waiting outside my house for Luca. He said he wants to celebrate our first anniversary—one of many to come. So I tried to dress up a little. Not a dress or anything, just a pair of jeans, a soft pink blouse, and my hair down.
When he pulls up, I’m already standing at the curb, buzzing with excitement. I always feel this way when I see him—like butterflies on caffeine. Passionate, a little violent. The best kind of nerves.
“You look beautiful,” he says, smiling as he steps out of the car. His mouth lands on mine, and for a second, we both disappear into a kiss that tastes like promises.
He’s way overdressed—crisp white shirt, tailored slacks, and a ridiculously expensive cologne that smells very male. Sometimes I forget he comes from serious money. It’s easy to forget—he never flaunts it. But moments like these? They’re a reality check.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, glancing at his outfit and instantly second-guessing mine.
“You’ll see.”
On the way to this mysterious destination, we talk about our lives—about everything happening lately. Luca applied to my university, and I got my acceptance letter this week. We have plenty to celebrate.
“We’re here,” he says, parking near the museum.
“Luca!” I squeal. “This is where—”
“Our first date was. Yeah, I know. Unforgettable.”
We walk in hand in hand, just like that day when I told him that busy streets made me anxious. This time, he doesn’t even ask; he just leads us around the chaos. The sun is setting, and the streets are full of people trying to get home.
But for us, the night is just beginning.
“Doesn’t it close at six?” I ask, pausing at the door.
“It does. But I made arrangements with the restaurant. We’ve got a few hours.”
I stop, blinking. “That must’ve cost a fortune.”
He just smiles, gently pulling me toward the entrance. “My dad’s treating. Don’t worry.”
I know this museum like the back of my hand.
I come here often, sometimes alone—to study technique, catch free talks, or just stare at art until my soul resets.
The space is silent, only our footsteps echoing through the sanctuary of creation.
I tighten my hand around Luca’s, unable to contain the bubbling in my stomach.
In the center of the modern art wing, there’s a small square table, set with a black cloth, elegant dishware, and flickering candles.
“Luca! I can’t believe this!” I laugh, actually bouncing where I stand.
We sit across from each other, and Luca is grinning like a boy with a secret.
A server in a suit arrives with silver trays, laying them before us like we’re royalty.
“Thanks, Murray,” Luca says warmly.
“Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Will do.”
Once we’re alone, I take in the spread: roasted vegetables, meats, seafood, pasta—way more than I could possibly eat.
“There’s no way I can finish this,” I say, overwhelmed but grinning.
“We’ll take the rest home. No big deal.”
Home.
We don’t live together yet, but for a second, I let myself pretend we do, that we have a home. That we’re already living the life we dream about waking up to his arms around me, falling asleep with his skin against mine. I can’t wait for that. For all of it.
Luca catches me daydreaming. “What were you thinking just now? You looked so peaceful.”
“I was thinking about our future,” I say carefully, hoping it doesn’t freak him out.
His gaze locks onto mine. Anyone else might think Luca didn’t want to be here, his posture too stiff, his voice a little tight.
But I know better. His eyes are soft. He holds himself rigid, so he doesn’t spend the whole night touching me, and his voice sounds strained because not touching me is his biggest challenge.
He once told me he feels ashamed sometimes. Scared, even. I asked why, and he said he gets overwhelmed by how much he needs me—how badly he wants to be close, to hold me, to sink into me. He said the feeling is so intense that it terrifies him.
I laughed and told him I get it that he should never stop touching me. That I need his hands the way I need paint.
“How do you picture our future?” I ask.
“Living together. Happy.” He smiles and lifts a glass. I meet it with mine, and we toast like two complete dorks.
“To a thousand more years,” he says.
“To a thousand more,” I reply, sipping what I now realize is champagne.
We eat, and I ramble about every painting in the room, the techniques, the artists, the history. He doesn’t roll his eyes or fake interest. He listens. He asks questions. He makes me feel like the smartest, most fascinating person in the world.
And honestly? I still can’t believe he chose me. Me. The messy girl who talks too much and always has acrylic paint under her nails. The one with no party clothes—just stained jeans and mismatched socks. The girl who eats like there’s no tomorrow.
After dinner, the server brings the check and our leftovers, neatly packed. Luca takes the bags and laces our fingers together as we head for the door.
“Oh,” he says, stopping suddenly. “Forgot to mention something.”
He tugs me gently down a hallway, and when we turn the corner, my jaw hits the floor.
“The Dalí exhibit opens next week,” he says. “But my parents are friends with the museum owners, so… VIP access.”
“Luca…” My hand flies to my mouth. “Those are Dalí’s paintings!”
“I know, little lamb,” he says with a smile. “Want to see them?”
I don’t even answer—I’m already walking toward the first one. I lose track of time staring at each piece, completely entranced, until we arrive at the painting. The one of the woman at the window.
“Remember what we were talking about when we had our first kiss?” I ask, my eyes still on the canvas.
“Of course,” he replies, eyes fixed on me. “You were talking about this painting. And how Lauren made fun of your copy.”
I laugh. “I was so nervous that day. Dying for you to kiss me. I thought you didn’t even like me.” I finally turn to face him.
His sharp jaw, his blue eyes, the shadow of a beard that’s just started to grow—those thick eyebrows I’ve drawn a thousand times. Everything about him feels like home.
“I didn’t like you,” he says quietly.
And for a second, my stomach drops.
“I was completely obsessed with you. Still am.” Then he drops to one knee. He pulls something from his pocket—a small red velvet box.
“Luca…” My voice sounds like a warning. “What are you doing?”
“Emma Green,” he says, opening the box to reveal the most stunning ring I’ve ever seen, “will you marry me?”
I stare at it. At him. My brain is short-circuiting with questions.
But—
We’re so young. We’re about to start college. We have no money.
“It’s a simple answer, Em. Yes or no.”
“Yes,” I say, without a second of doubt.
Luca beams. He stands, slips the ring onto my finger, and kisses me, pulling me into his arms like he never wants to let go.
I wrap mine around him just as tightly and whisper against his lips, “I love you.”
“You have no idea how much I love you,” he murmurs.