It had been sitting there for days, tucked between other pages and scraps of paper, unassuming enough that most people wouldn’t give it a second glance. Luka wasn’t most people.

He noticed the little things—the curl of a corner, the faint imprint of ink bleeding through from the other side.

His fingers slid the sheet free, his gaze already scanning over the handwriting before he could tell himself to stop.

The first few lines were harmless enough, meandering phrases about light, warmth, and something soft that didn’t quite take shape.

It wasn’t until he caught the rhythm of the words that his brow twitched faintly. This wasn’t just idle writing. It was a song.

He didn’t skim; he read. Slowly. Deliberately.

Each line gave him more than the last—metaphors layered with quiet intimacy, emotions that sat heavier than you likely intended.

There was a tenderness in the way the verses unfolded, something private and careful, and yet raw enough to suggest you hadn’t written it with an audience in mind.

Then his eyes landed on his own name.

Once. Then again. A third time, woven into the lyrics so naturally it was as if it had always belonged there.

He paused, letting the weight of it settle.

Luka wasn’t someone who often saw himself reflected in the words of others, and certainly not like this—not framed with affection, not softened into something poetic.

The syllables of his name sat differently here, like they’d been chosen for the sound as much as the meaning.

He read the lines again, slower this time, tracing the way you’d built the song up piece by piece.

He could see the moments you’d gotten bored and wandered off, only to return later with another fragment, another turn of phrase.

The unevenness of it didn’t bother him—it only made it feel more real, more yours.

Luka’s expression didn’t shift much, but his fingers lingered at the edge of the page, smoothing it as though that could keep the words from fraying.

There was a strange pull in his chest, subtle but undeniable, a curiosity not about the song itself but about what had made you write it—and why you’d let his name settle into it more than once.

For a moment, he considered putting it back exactly where he found it, leaving no trace of his presence.

But instead, Luka folded the paper neatly and slipped it into his pocket. Not to confront you. Not to tease. Just to keep.

Later, when you noticed it missing, his gaze would meet yours without guilt, unreadable as always. He wouldn’t admit he’d read it.

But he’d know. And he’d wonder—quietly, privately—if you’d ever sing it out loud where he could hear.