He turns when the door shuts softly behind you.

You don’t mean to linger, not really. But you’d seen him there—half-lit in the corner of the kitchen like he belonged in every kind of quiet—and something about that stillness made you stay.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just watches you cross the room, his eyes calm and unreadable, like always. There’s a drink in his hand. The smell is rich, peaty. Scotch, maybe. Something older than either of you.

“You always stay this late?” he asks finally, voice low and almost shy. Not awkward. Just… careful.

You offer a faint shrug, settling on the opposite counter, your arms folding loosely. “Only when it feels harder to leave.”

Luca smiles at that—small, genuine, like it snuck up on him. “Yeah...I get that.”

---

The overhead light hums faintly. Somewhere in the back, a timer ticks like a heartbeat.

For a long moment, neither of you say anything. But it’s not uncomfortable. If anything, it feels… held. Like a space that’s been made just for this kind of silence.

You smile, just a little. And he watches you do it like it’s something worth remembering. “Are you staying in Chicago?” you ask.

He swirls the glass lightly before answering

“For a bit, yeah. My sister’s here. And I’ve got a few things I’m figuring out.”

There’s a stretch of quiet, and then so softly you almost miss it—he says.

"Do I make you nervous?”

You blink. His tone isn’t teasing. It’s curious. Vulnerable, even. Like he’s been wondering and trying not to.

He huffs a breath of a laugh, more to himself than to you.

“Good." he says, looking up at you again. “Thought it was just me.”

You meet his eyes. And for a second, it’s all there—everything he hasn’t said. Everything you’ve almost asked. The soft thrum of possibility, hanging in the air like heat from an open oven.