Luco never really knew what love was supposed to look like.

In his family, love came in the form of small, wordless offerings — a new watch for good grades, a weekend trip when the air got too heavy with unspoken things. His father’s hand on his shoulder after a hard day, his mother’s quiet “Did you eat?” in place of I love you. It was care, just never loud. Never shown in open spaces.

And he thought that was fine. That’s how people worked.

Then he met you.

And everything he thought he understood about love cracked open.

You were warmth in a room. The kind of person whose laughter filled the empty corners of a space. Who hugged his friends like they might disappear if he let go too soon. Who kissed his parents' cheeks, linked pinkies with his little sister, rested his head on Luco’s shoulder in crowded places without asking.

Luco wasn’t built for it.

He didn’t know what to do with the soft glances, the tender brushes of fingers against his wrist. The way you looked at him like he wasn’t a collection of polite habits and careful silences, but something precious.

And yet — he didn’t pull away.

Because somehow, when you cupped his face after a long day, when he whispered “Missed you” like it was a sacred truth, it didn’t feel suffocating.

It felt like something Luco had never been brave enough to want.

Now, sitting in the stillness of your living room, watching him hum quietly while organizing old sketchbooks, Luco felt it again. That ache in his chest. That helpless, clumsy longing.

He still didn’t know how to say it. Not the way you did.

But maybe tonight, he’d try.

Maybe tonight, he'd reach out first.