The low hum of a bass fills the air, mingling with the faint scent of whiskey and old leather. The jazz lounge is dimly lit, the kind of place where shadows stretch long, and secrets are whispered rather than shouted. Outside, the rain cascades down in sheets, streaking the fogged windows as the city moves on without you. And then, like clockwork, Luca walks in.

He never announces himself; he doesn’t need to. Luca has a way of owning a room without even trying, his presence cutting through the smoke and chatter like a sharp note in an otherwise mellow tune. Tonight, he’s wearing that usual blend of casual confidence—a tailored coat draped over his shoulders, an open collar showing a sliver of warm, golden skin.

His eyes find you instantly. Of course, they do. It’s not the first time you’ve ended up here on a night like this, seeking comfort in the soft tunes of a saxophone and whatever undefined connection the two of you have decided to call this.

“Stormy nights suit you,” he says as he slides into the seat across from you, his voice smooth and teasing. His eyes linger on yours for just a moment before shifting to the drink in your hand. “Still nursing a whiskey sour?”

You shrug, trying to seem unaffected by the way his gaze seems to peel back every layer you’ve carefully wrapped around yourself. “Figured it’d help me forget how miserable the weather is.”

Luca leans back, the corner of his mouth tugging into a smirk. “Miserable weather, or something else?”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t answer. You don’t need to. He already knows the truth; he always does. The tension crackles between you like static electricity as the band strikes up a sultry tune, the melody underscoring the magnetic pull you’ve been resisting all night.

He reaches forward, brushing his knuckles lightly against yours. The touch is brief, fleeting—but enough to leave you breathless. His voice dips lower, a private murmur meant only for you. “Why do you keep pretending this is casual when we both know it isn’t?”