Chapter 21 - Emma
Iwas scared Luca would notice the marks time left on my body—my skin isn't as young as it used to be. New sunspots and clumsy little scars draw a different map now, and for a second, I felt self-conscious. But Luca doesn’t seem to see any of it.
If anything, he explores me like he’s discovering something new, something he actually enjoys.
And I feel the same when he walks out naked, which, come to think of it, has been most of the time.
His body is mature now, strong. There’s more hair than I remember, and his muscles are more defined, but not in that gym-junkie way that looks like their shirts are crying for help.
He wasn’t lying this morning when he said we’d be in bed all day. It honestly feels like we’re trying to make up for lost time—or maybe he’s just compensating for all the years he didn’t give me a single orgasm.
I laugh quietly at the thought, thankful he’s in the shower and I don’t have to explain myself.
Luca’s room is ridiculously minimalist. There are three books on his nightstand with a pair of black-rimmed glasses on top.
One of the titles is The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir, the other is The Republic by Plato, and the last one is The Art of War by Sun Tzu.
It’s comforting to see he never gave up on his love for philosophy.
A small lamp on the table casts a warm glow across the room, joining the light coming from the cracked bathroom door. Steam billows out, and I can hear him humming a tune I don’t recognize.
His voice is deep, calming.
Nothing is out of place. Even our clothes from last night are gone. Luca keeps everything neat.
Curious, I get up and head to the door of his walk-in closet. And just as I suspected—Luca is completely OCD.
The space isn’t massive, but every white and black shirt is hanging evenly spaced along the walls.
There’s a shelf displaying shoes like they’re trophies, a section with ties and bowties, gym clothes, duffel bags, backpacks, luggage…
everything is there, but nothing tells me who Luca Walker is or what he actually does.
"Snooping through my closet, little lamb?" His voice booms from the doorway.
I try not to look guilty and just keep strolling. "There’s nothing out of place," I say, running my hand along the sleeves of his white shirts.
"Nope."
"Ana María does a good job," I add with a half-smile.
Luca stands under the doorframe, so tall his head nearly grazes it. A towel is slung low on his hips, dangerously low, and that V-shaped muscle on his abdomen is basically pointing me to sin.
Control yourself, Emma. He’s not a piece of meat.
He drops the towel as he walks past me—because of course he does—and bends to grab underwear from a drawer.
"That’s what you wear to lounge around the house?"
"Nope," he says casually, pulling on a black t-shirt. "When I’m comfortable at home, I’m naked."
Oh. Damn it.
"But don’t worry, I won’t do that to you. Especially when you can’t stop staring at my ass."
He laughs.
"You can’t blame me. I know women who’d commit crimes for that ass."
"I’m aware." He pulls on black sweatpants and walks toward me.
My hair’s still damp from the shower—I told him to stay back because, well, I’m sore and I knew we wouldn’t behave otherwise.
He brushes a strand behind my ear, eyes tracing the movement.
"Have you ever felt even a fraction of what we had… with anyone else?" he whispers.
That question has haunted me ever since I saw him again. I’m not sure why—maybe it’s masochism, maybe self-sabotage—but I’ve needed to know the answer just as much as he does.
"Never," I say, just as softly. Maybe we’re whispering because we both know how much this can hurt. "And you?"
Luca slowly shakes his head. His fingers move, brushing my hair over my shoulder. "My therapist tried to get me to move on, to stop comparing every woman to you. But, Emma…" He swallows hard. "How do you compare a masterpiece to a knockoff? A connection like ours wasn’t meant to be replaced."
"Except for what I did."
"Except for that." He steps back, like he’s just remembered why I broke him in the first place. He takes a deep breath, clearing his throat. "Want to see how the outside world’s doing?" he asks, reaching for my hand and leading me out of the closet.
Luca used to hold my hand just like this in high school, like it was his personal duty to get me from class to class. I never complained—I loved being close to him.
"Yes. But Luca” I stop us mid-step "—I would never hurt you like that again. You know that, right?"
During the drive, we pass street after street littered with the storm’s chaos—palm fronds scattered like broken ribs, trash cans tipped over, puddles swallowing entire sidewalks.
I’m still wearing his clothes. I told him I’d return them, but he just smirked and said they were mine now.
I kind of love them. They smell like him, feel like a hug I don’t have to ask for.
When I open my apartment door, I do a quick scan—checking for panties abandoned on the floor or half-empty coffee cups forgotten in the kitchen.
"What’s this?"
I turn to see what he’s looking at—and my stomach drops.
Oh no… no, no, no.
He’s standing in front of the painting I was working on before the New Year’s party.
"Luca…"
His eyes move over the canvas, his fingers brushing thick strokes of acrylic like he’s reading something in them. "Is my stare really this intense?"
It’s a portrait of him—his eyes even more piercing than real life. The background is red, yellow, blue… as intense and complicated as he is.
"It was… before. Not so much now," I mumble, arms crossed, shoulders hunched like I can shield myself from the secret that’s now out in the open.
"I look… tortured."
I step beside him, trying to see the painting through his eyes. "You’ve always been complex, Luca. Overwhelmed by life, even as a kid. These were the colors I felt when I saw you walking the halls back then."
He looks at me, concern shadowing his eyes. "Maybe… that’s how I felt," he says softly, touching the canvas again. "Until I met you. You were like light in hell, the only person who pulled me to the surface so I could breathe."
I rest my hand on his shoulder. "Why did you feel that way? What was the darkness?"
"I don’t know," he whispers, not meeting my eyes. "I’ve always felt alone, disconnected—from people, from my brothers, especially my parents. When you’re rough around the edges, people back off. But you never did. You challenged me, even enjoyed pissing me off."
I smile with him. "I just wanted your attention."
He looks at me, curious. "Really?" I nod. "I was clueless back then. I actually thought you hated me for a while."
I shake my head.
"We all have light and dark in us," I explain, pointing to the colors on the painting.
"Sometimes we feel rage or lust,"—I gesture to the red—"and sometimes we’re so sad we can’t see beyond it.
" I move to the blue. "Other times the world lights up a little. That’s life, Luca. We’re supposed to feel all of it. "
He takes my hand, laces our fingers, and steps closer. "Why?" There’s a desperate edge to his voice.
"Because if we didn’t know sadness, we wouldn’t recognize joy. If we never had darkness, how would we know what light even is? It’s all part of it."
Luca gives me a half-smile. "These are the kinds of things you said that made me fall for you, Em."
"Is that a warning?"
"Yeah. Keep saying stuff like that, and I won’t be responsible for what happens next."