You don’t see him come in, but you feel him.

It’s the air shifting. The tension threading up your spine. You’re laughing at something the guy beside you said, fingers grazing his arm a little too long. But your eyes stay on your drink, and your smile stays sweet.

Because you know he’s watching.

Which is good, since you threw the party for him.

Not that you’d admit it. This is just a casual night. Just music. Just a hundred little calculated accidents—like the way you wore the dress he once said drove him crazy, or the way you’re smiling too much at someone who isn’t him.

Your fingers skim the edge of the counter, your smile sharpening as you let the guy next to you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. He’s sweet. Safe.

But you don’t care about him.

You only care about the way Luca is watching.

You feel his eyes like a flame licking up your spine, slow and searing.

And when you finally glance across the room, there he is—broad shoulders tense as he stands in the doorframe, that unreadable expression etched across his face like stone. His date, some sleek thing in red, is clinging to his arm, whispering something into his ear that he doesn’t hear. His eyes are only on you.

Your chest tightens—but you smirk instead. You take the guy’s hand and lead him toward the dance floor, hips swaying to the music. You don’t look back.

You don’t have to.

He’s already behind you.

You feel the heat of him a second before his hands find your waist—firm, grounding, impossible to ignore.

“Enjoying yourself?” he says, voice low, rough like gravel and heat.

“Of course, it’s my party.”

You glance over your shoulder, lips brushing his jaw as you smile.

“Why? Jealous?”

His jaw flexes. His hand slides to your waist.

“You wore that dress for me.”

You arch a brow, heartbeat pounding in your throat.

“And if I did?”

His eyes darken, drawn to your mouth like he’s already decided.

A beat passes. Tension coils tight between you, electric and sharp.

Then he leans in, lips ghosting your ear.

“Let me take it off, then.”