It was raining.
Soft, steady—like the sky had decided to exhale.
Sienna stood by the window in one of Luca's oversized sweaters, no pants, her legs bare, her eyes fixed on the blurred skyline. The city looked like it was crying, but in a beautiful, cleansing way.
Behind her, Luca watched.
She felt it.
That stare. Quiet. Focused. The same one he gave her before he kissed her thighs, before he told her to beg, before he made her forget how to speak.
But tonight, he didn't touch her.
He just stood there, sipping his drink, letting silence stretch between them like rope made of something tender.
"You look like you're trying not to say something," she said without turning around.
"I'm trying not to ruin this," he answered.
She turned.
His shirt hung open. His chest was bare. The firelight cast golden shapes across his abs and collarbone, but his eyes—dark and vulnerable—were what undid her.
She walked over to him slowly.
"Ruin what?"
"This feeling."
"Which one?"
He set the glass down.
"That I'm not just fucking you anymore. That I need you."
The words landed like heat.
Heavy. Real.
She sat beside him on the couch, legs curled underneath her, eyes soft but steady.
"You're allowed to need things, Luca."
"I've needed things before. That didn't end well."
"Then maybe you were needing the wrong things."
He looked down.
And for a moment, he wasn't the man who tied her wrists or commanded her moans.
He was just a man.
Wounded. Wanting.
"I built a life around control," he said. "Because every time I let go, someone weaponized my softness. My openness."
Sienna reached for his hand.
She didn't squeeze it. Didn't grip.
Just held it.
Steady.
"I won't punish you for being real with me," she said. "But I won't let you hide from me, either."
He looked up.
"You scare the fuck out of me, Sienna."
She smiled. Just barely.
"You terrify me too."
He leaned forward, pressed his forehead to hers.
They didn't kiss.
Not yet.
He just breathed against her.
"Are we too fucked up for this?" he whispered.
She shook her head.
"No. We're just… complicated."
A beat passed.
And then another.
And then his lips found hers—not with heat, but with meaning. Soft. Full. A kiss that didn't want to dominate. Just connect.
They stayed curled on the couch like that for hours.
Talking.
About childhood.
Fear.
What love looked like when it wasn't attached to pain.
She told him about her mother—cold, demanding, elegant in a way that cut.
He told her about the first woman who ever made him feel shame for wanting to lead and care at the same time.
They listened.
They heard.
And when they finally made love that night, it wasn't fireworks.
It was fireplace warmth.
Deep strokes. Long kisses. His hands cradling her hips like they were too valuable to rush. Her fingers threading through his hair, pulling him deeper, but not for more friction—for closeness.
And when he came inside her, whispering her name like a confession, she kissed his shoulder and said the scariest thing of all:
"I'm falling in love with you."
Luca went still.
Then he pulled her closer.
Pressed his lips to her temple.
And whispered:
"Then fall."