It was always the quiet ones who were the most dangerous.

You saw him first on a Wednesday — standing barefoot in the hallway across from your apartment, white shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, golden eyes tracking the slow roll of morning like he owned the sun. He didn’t look startled to see you. If anything, it felt like he had been waiting.

“Morning,” he said, voice a low murmur, like velvet over gravel. He leaned against the doorframe, shadows licking the edges of his face while light spilled across his collarbone. “Didn’t mean to stare. You just looked… lost.”

You weren’t. Not really. But with the way he looked at you — like he could read the places in you no one else had bothered to explore — it was hard to remember where you’d been going.

His name was Luca. And nothing about him was ordinary.