48

When I wake up, the bed is too big.

Warm, soft, cloudlike.

A mattress that probably cost more than my house.

My legs are tangled in the sheets, and I'm still wearing his hoodie, sleeves past my fingers, the collar stretched from where I tugged it up to my nose in my sleep.

For a second, I panic.

I forget where I am.

Then I smell butter.

And hear a pan clatter.

And someone cursing-softly, sweetly, like the kind of cursing that comes with flour on your cheek and too many eggs in a bowl.

Luca.

I shuffle down the marble hallway.

The floors are warm.

The art is intimidating.

The butler (yes, actual butler) tips his head as I pass like this is normal.

It's not.

But I smile politely anyway and keep going until I find the kitchen.

It's bright.

Gold sunlight spills in from the giant windows.

There are way too many countertops.

And in the middle of it all is him.

Luca.

Hair a mess.

Wearing a white tee and plaid pajama pants.

And covered in what I hope is powdered sugar.

I stop in the doorway.

And I watch.

Because honestly?

I've never seen anything this cute in my life.

He's trying to flip something. A pancake, maybe. It sticks.

He curses again under his breath, then tries to scrape it out with a spatula like he's defusing a bomb.

"You're up," he says suddenly, glancing over his shoulder.

Busted.

"I was watching the chaos."

"It's not chaos," he lies.

"You're wearing more flour than the pancakes."

"That was a design choice."

I pad over to the kitchen island, curl up on the stool, hoodie sleeves pulled over my hands.

"What exactly are you trying to make?"

"Love," he says without missing a beat.

"To the pancakes?"

"To you. Through pancakes. It's very poetic."

I laugh. Really laugh.

It startles me a little.

I don't even try to hide it.

He grins, glancing at me like that sound is everything.

"You okay?" he asks, quieter this time.

I nod. Slowly.

"I think so."

He walks over.

Sets a half-burnt pancake in front of me with the pride of a five-star chef.

I look at it.

Then look at him.

"This looks like a hate crime against breakfast."

"It's got character."

"It's got trauma."

He leans on the counter, chin in his hand, watching me watch the plate.

"You don't have to eat it," he says gently.

"I might. For the story."

"I made it for you," he says, quieter. "You don't have to eat it to know that."

I look up.

And there it is again.

That look.

The one that says he sees me.

And he's still here.

And he's not going anywhere.

So I pick up the fork.

Cut a tiny piece.

Eat it.

And when he raises his eyebrows like I just jumped out of a plane, I grin.

"It's terrible."

"I know."

"I love it."

He laughs.

Then comes around to kiss the top of my head like it's the easiest thing in the world.

"Stay," he murmurs.

"I'm already here."

----------------------------------------------------------

The day drips in gold and silence.

We're cocooned on the massive sectional couch in Luca's parents' ridiculous library-turned-TV room.

It smells like fresh linen, his cologne, and cinnamon toast he definitely over-buttered.

The ceiling is way too high.

The windows are obnoxiously huge.

Everything around me is expensive and cold—

But his arm around me?

That's warm.

I'm curled up on one end.

He's stretched out beside me, sockless and sleepy, hair still wild from the nap we accidentally took after breakfast.

Some vintage cartoon plays on low volume—bright colors, wobbly voices, no real plot.

Just like us, honestly.

I tuck my toes under his thigh.

He pretends not to notice, but he shifts closer.

I breathe.

Like it's finally safe to.

"You're staring," he murmurs without looking away from the screen.

"You're pretending you don't like it."

He smirks, eyes half-lidded.

"I like everything about this."

That makes something flutter in my chest.

I look away. Smile into the sleeve of the hoodie I never gave back.

We lie there in the hush of it.

Time doesn't really exist in this room.

Nothing outside feels real.

I think I could stay like this forever—

Safe.

Tucked under his chin.

Cartoons buzzing like white noise.

His fingers tracing mindless shapes over my shoulder.

Until my phone starts vibrating.

Violent. Insistent.

I frown and fish it out of the hoodie pocket.

Mom.

My stomach drops.

Like a switch gets flipped.

Like every bit of warmth evaporates and leaves my skin cold.

"I'll be right back," I mutter, slipping off the couch.

Luca watches me sit up. His brows furrow immediately.

"Everything okay?"

I nod.

Lie.

Then answer.

"Hello?"

"Senna."

My name is a blade in her mouth.

"Where the hell are you?"

I pause, heart thudding against my ribs.

"I—I stayed at a friend's. I meant to text—"

"You meant to text?" she snaps. "Your bed hasn't been touched. I've called eight times. Do you think this is a game? You think disappearing overnight is okay?!"

"I'm fine," I whisper.

"You are not fine. You are irresponsible. You are selfish. And if I didn't know better, I'd say you were out doing God knows what with some boy."

Her voice grows sharper.

The last word stings the worst.

Because she's right.

But not in the way she thinks.

"I'm safe," I say again, quieter. "I swear."

"You have ten minutes to get back here. Or don't bother coming home."

Click.

She hangs up.

I don't move for a second.

Just hold the phone like it burned me.

Breathe through the prickle behind my eyes.

When I finally turn around, Luca's standing.

He doesn't ask what she said.

He already knows.

"Let me drive you," he says softly.

I shake my head.

"She'll see you and go feral."

"Then I'll park two blocks away and drop you like a spy."

"You're ridiculous."

"You're not walking out of here alone."

I nod, slowly.

Because honestly?

I don't want to be alone.

Not even for ten minutes.

As I grab my shoes, Luca steps into my space again.

Takes my hands gently.

"You okay?"

"No."

"Do you want to be brave for ten minutes?"

"I'll try."

He leans forward and presses his forehead to mine.

Not a kiss.

Not a fix.

Just... him. Being here. With me. In the middle of it.

"You can come back anytime," he whispers.

"Even if it's just to hide from the world and eat burnt pancakes."

"Especially if it's for burnt pancakes," I whisper back.

And that's how we leave—

Not smiling.