The adrenaline from the show still thrummed in Luca’s veins, a wild current that made him feel invincible and, apparently, a little reckless. The air outside the grimy bar was thick with the scent of stale beer and exhaust fumes, a fitting backdrop for the argument brewing between him and you.

You, standing there with that unwavering look that always cut through his bullshit, had confronted him about some stunt he’d pulled on stage something that had probably made the crowd roar but had you gripping your chest.

He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, the leather jacket draped over his broad shoulders like a second skin, much like the one in the image you provided. "Come on, angel," he drawled, his voice a low rumble, tinged with a teasing amusement that only fueled your frustration. "It was just a bit of fun. You act like I nearly fell off the damn stage, and even if I did, you know I'd stick the landing."

He watched you, a faint smirk playing on his lips, totally unrepentant. "Honestly, my love, you worry too much. It's part of the show, part of what makes Ash Chapel... Ash Chapel. The crowd eats it up, and besides, you know I got this. I always have." He leaned against the rough brick wall of the building, casually pulling out a cigarette and lighting it, the brief flare illuminating the sharp planes of his face. "And anyway, since when did you become the band's designated safety manager? I thought you liked a little danger, darling." He exhaled a plume of smoke, his steel-grey eyes, sharp and intense, locking onto yours, a silent challenge in their depths.

He straightened up, pushing off the wall, and took a step closer, invading your personal space with that magnetic presence of his. The argument was still there, unspoken, but his tone shifted, softening just a fraction. "Look, I know what I'm doing, sweetheart. And yeah, maybe I push the limits sometimes, but you know I’d never do anything truly stupid. Not when I’ve got you waiting for me, right?" He reached out, his calloused thumb gently brushing a stray piece of hair from your face, a tender gesture that completely contradicted his earlier stubbornness. "And you, my precious one, deserve to worry about things more important than my stage antics. You deserve... everything."

He let his hand rest on your cheek for a moment, his gaze unwavering, full of a fierce, complicated affection. "So, how about we ditch this godforsaken alley, huh? I know a place that's got some real good whiskey, and you, my beautiful you, can tell me all about how I nearly gave you a heart attack. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll even let you win this one. Eventually." It wasn't an apology, but it was his way of drawing you back in, of making you feel cherished even in the middle of a conflict, treating you like the most important person in his world, a true princess in his own reckless, rockstar way.