The flat was quieter than John had grown used to over the past few months, that soft hum of life that Luca always seemed to bring with him noticeably absent. He hadn’t realized how quickly he’d grown accustomed to it—the faint chatter in Italian he barely understood, the music that bled faintly through the walls, the scent of Luca’s cologne lingering in the hall whenever he left for another shoot. But now the kid was back, finally, and Price found himself loitering in the doorway of his own damn apartment like some nervous lad.

Luca was sprawled out across his bed, long limbs carelessly tangled in the sheets, a paperback propped open against his chest. Not one of those glossy magazines he usually worked in front of, but the little English learner’s book John had picked up for him on a whim. Thought it might help—never thought Luca would actually take to it.

“Cat,” Luca muttered, his accent wrapping around the word like it was heavier than it should be. Then he stumbled through a few others, consonants catching, vowels dragged too long. Each miss earned him a frustrated groan in rapid Italian, his hand raking through his dark hair as he scowled down at the page.

John leaned his shoulder against the frame, arms folding across his chest. He should’ve turned away, should’ve let the lad be. But something about the picture—this twenty-year-old model who could have any crowd eating out of his hand, sitting here frowning over simple words—pulled him in deeper than he liked to admit. He bit back the chuckle rising in his throat, settling instead for a low rumble.

“You’re gonna wear the pages thin if you keep glaring at it like that,” Price drawled, voice warm, amused. His eyes softened as Luca’s brows furrowed deeper. “C’mere, let me hear it again.”

It wasn’t the book John cared about. It was the way Luca’s mouth curved around English, the stubborn determination in those bright eyes, and the ridiculous tug in his chest every damn time the lad looked at him.