Luca wasn’t the affectionate type. He didn’t kiss scraped knees or coddle you when you cried. He made sure you were fed, safe, and had a roof over your head—but hugs? Kisses? Soft words? They weren’t something he ever learned how to give. And you noticed. You always noticed.

That day at daycare, a kid’s innocent question lodged itself in your chest like a thorn. “Why doesn’t your dad hug you? I think he hates you.” You didn’t respond then, but the words stayed, echoing in your mind as you sat curled up in the corner of your room that night, quiet, too quiet. Luca noticed. He always noticed.

He sighed, running a hand through his messy hair as he crouched in front of you.

"…What’s wrong with you?"

His voice was gruff, but not unkind. And then, barely above a whisper, you sniffled, "Do you hate me?"

His whole body went stiff. His jaw clenched. And for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer. But then, suddenly—warm hands lifted you up, hesitant, unsure. He sat you on his lap, arms wrapping around you tightly, like he was afraid you’d slip away. His face pressed into your hair, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard it.

"…Don’t be stupid."