Summary: Luigi disappeared without a word. When Cassie stumbles back into his life after months of silence, she finds someone unrecognizable, distant, exhausted, buried under the weight of something he refuses to talk about. But Cassie won't let him disappear again.
Warnings & Tags: Friends to lovers, slow burn, hurt/comfort, angst, chronic pain & spondylolisthesis, depression, multiple pov, found family vibes, dark shit—prepare for possible tears
Previous Chapter | Read on AO3
Chapter Two
Luigi
I step into my apartment, shutting the door behind me, and immediately feel the weight of it all. The silence. The dim light filtering through the curtains I barely bother to open anymore. The air is stale, unmoving.
I walk to the kitchen, set the bags down on the counter, and just… stare at them.
I should put the groceries away.
Soup and bread in the pantry. Oat milk in the fridge. The frozen stuff will start to thaw if I don’t put everything in the freezer.
My gaze drifts to the fridge. I don’t need to open it to know what’s inside. The remnants of a carton of milk, takeout containers, and an embarrassing amount of energy drinks. I should cook something. Eat something real. But the idea of it is draining.
Put them away, I tell myself. It’s not hard.
But I just stand there, motionless, my fingers still curled around the handles even though I already let go. My arms feel heavy, my legs unsteady. I would have to bend down to store things away and it feels like too much.
The mere thought of moving—of doing anything at all—is so unbearably exhausting that I just…don’t.
I don’t move.
I exhale sharply, and scrub a hand down my face. My stubble is rough against my palm—another thing I haven’t had the energy for.
My hands fall flat against the counter, head hanging low. My back protests immediately—a sharp ache radiating from my lower spine, creeping up and down my sides. I grit my teeth, breathing through it, waiting for it to settle into that familiar dull burn.
I shouldn’t have been standing so long in that store. I knew better, but I let it happen anyway. Now I’m paying for it. In more ways than one.
My stomach twists when I think of her.
I shouldn’t have let Cassie see me like that. I should have walked away. The second I heard my name in that grocery store, I should have been out the door.
But I didn’t. Because it was her.
I press my forehead against the cabinet in front of me and close my eyes. She was the last person I expected to see today. Here, so far away from home. After so long.
Seven months. Seven months of silence, of avoiding, ignoring, shutting down. And then, just like that, she finds me again.
Cassie’s voice still lingers in my head—light, teasing, determined as ever. The worst part? For a moment, her presence felt like sunlight breaking through fog, and now that she’s not here, I feel cold. It’s all cloudy again. The air in this apartment feels even more lifeless.
That’s why I can’t let her stay. I can’t let her in again.
She doesn’t know I spend half the night staring at the ceiling because my back won’t let me sleep. She doesn’t know what it’s like to feel my body betray me every single fucking day. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be in the middle of something—walking down the street, sitting at my desk, trying to cook dinner—and suddenly feel like my spine is about to snap in half.
And I don’t want her to.
I don’t want her seeing me like this. I don’t want her knowing how bad it really is.
I push off the counter, trying to shake this agonizing feeling clinging to my skin like static. My body is already aching, and I don’t even bother trying to fight it.
I barely glance at the grocery bags on my way out of the kitchen. They can sit there for all I care. It’s not like I’m eating much anyway.
But I still catch sight of myself in the reflection of the dark microwave door. It’s an accident.
Don’t look.
Something inside me feels like acid. It makes me want to put my fist through the damn reflection. I look away immediately.
I don’t want to see this hollowed-out version of myself. Hollow eyes. Hollow cheeks. Hollow soul.
The hair that needs cutting, the shoulders slumped under the weight of emotional exhaustion, the pained grimace that is becoming a permanent fixture around here.
I look like shit. I feel like shit.
I used to be strong, resilient. I used to be… more. But now I’m just a ghost. I’m not the guy Cassie used to know.
I hate this version of myself. The one who limps down grocery store aisles, who wakes up every morning already exhausted. The one who stares at old pictures but refuses to delete them like some pathetic part of me still believes I’ll ever get that life back.
As I walk into the living room, my eyes flick to the far corner, to the cardboard box shoved under the desk. My old hiking boots hiding inside it. The ones I used to lace up without a second thought, the ones that carried me up mountains, through forests, over miles of untouched trails.
I haven’t worn them in over a year.
My fingers twitch. I should throw them out.
But I know I won’t.
I sink down onto the couch, letting my head fall back against the cushions. The apartment is silent, the kind of dead quiet that used to be peaceful but now feels oppressive.
This isn’t home.
It’s not my dorm at UPenn, where there was always laughter. It’s not my old apartment with its cluttered bookshelves and the couch Cassie used to crash on when we worked too late on a game project.
It’s not the ocean or the mountains or the endless possibilities of a Saturday morning with a packed bag and a full tank of gas.
It’s just this. These sad walls. This empty silence.
And me.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
I was supposed to have everything. I was supposed to be someone.
But now I can’t even find the energy to put my fucking groceries away.
I feel the weight settle heavier in my chest again. The burden of my entire past colliding with reality is just sitting here, preventing me from taking a deep breath. It’s a suffocating kind of grief, the kind that doesn’t rip through you all at once, but lingers—clawing, gnawing, whispering that this is all that’s left.
I shut my eyes, try to block it out.
It doesn’t help. All I see is Cassie’ face. The image of her is seared into my brain—her wide brown eyes, the way her lips parted in shock before stretching into that too-bright, too-relieved smile.
Like she actually missed me.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. My shoulders ache from the weight of it all—the weight of her seeing me like this.
I shouldn’t have let her drive me home. I shouldn’t have let her see where I live. I should’ve walked away before she had the chance to really look at me and notice everything that’s wrong.
Cassie felt like a lifeline.
I rub my knuckles into my eyes. She’s a piece of my old life—the part I had to cut off like a rotting limb when everything fell apart. The part that belonged to the guy who pulled all-nighters coding, hiked every weekend, surfed whenever he had time off.
That guy is gone. And now she knows.
She tried to play it cool at the store, but I saw it in her eyes. The recognition. The frustration. The worry.
I can’t let her see more. I can’t let her dig into the truth. Because the truth is ugly and draining and just… too much.
You captured the feeling of hating yourself and isolation when your own body is failing you so well, it honestly made me tear up 😭
-- 🎵
Thank you! I was worried it wouldn't come across right but I'm glad it did. I wanted it to feel real and not like a caricature/romanticization of what living with chronic illness actually feels like.
Let's all raise a glass for those of us who are familiar with this feeling🍹It gets better, y'all. Eventually. or so they tell me 💚
Summary: Luigi disappeared without a word. When Cassie stumbles back into his life after months of silence, she finds someone unrecognizable, distant, exhausted, buried under the weight of something he refuses to talk about. But Cassie won't let him disappear again.
Warnings & Tags: Friends to lovers, slow burn, hurt/comfort, angst, chronic pain & spondylolisthesis, depression, multiple pov, found family vibes, dark shit—prepare for possible tears
Previous Chapter | Read on AO3
Chapter Two
Luigi
I step into my apartment, shutting the door behind me, and immediately feel the weight of it all. The silence. The dim light filtering through the curtains I barely bother to open anymore. The air is stale, unmoving.
I walk to the kitchen, set the bags down on the counter, and just… stare at them.
I should put the groceries away.
Soup and bread in the pantry. Oat milk in the fridge. The frozen stuff will start to thaw if I don’t put everything in the freezer.
My gaze drifts to the fridge. I don’t need to open it to know what’s inside. The remnants of a carton of milk, takeout containers, and an embarrassing amount of energy drinks. I should cook something. Eat something real. But the idea of it is draining.
Put them away, I tell myself. It’s not hard.
But I just stand there, motionless, my fingers still curled around the handles even though I already let go. My arms feel heavy, my legs unsteady. I would have to bend down to store things away and it feels like too much.
The mere thought of moving—of doing anything at all—is so unbearably exhausting that I just…don’t.
I don’t move.
I exhale sharply, and scrub a hand down my face. My stubble is rough against my palm—another thing I haven’t had the energy for.
My hands fall flat against the counter, head hanging low. My back protests immediately—a sharp ache radiating from my lower spine, creeping up and down my sides. I grit my teeth, breathing through it, waiting for it to settle into that familiar dull burn.
I shouldn’t have been standing so long in that store. I knew better, but I let it happen anyway. Now I’m paying for it. In more ways than one.
My stomach twists when I think of her.
I shouldn’t have let Cassie see me like that. I should have walked away. The second I heard my name in that grocery store, I should have been out the door.
But I didn’t. Because it was her.
I press my forehead against the cabinet in front of me and close my eyes. She was the last person I expected to see today. Here, so far away from home. After so long.
Seven months. Seven months of silence, of avoiding, ignoring, shutting down. And then, just like that, she finds me again.
Cassie’s voice still lingers in my head—light, teasing, determined as ever. The worst part? For a moment, her presence felt like sunlight breaking through fog, and now that she’s not here, I feel cold. It’s all cloudy again. The air in this apartment feels even more lifeless.
That’s why I can’t let her stay. I can’t let her in again.
She doesn’t know I spend half the night staring at the ceiling because my back won’t let me sleep. She doesn’t know what it’s like to feel my body betray me every single fucking day. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be in the middle of something—walking down the street, sitting at my desk, trying to cook dinner—and suddenly feel like my spine is about to snap in half.
And I don’t want her to.
I don’t want her seeing me like this. I don’t want her knowing how bad it really is.
I push off the counter, trying to shake this agonizing feeling clinging to my skin like static. My body is already aching, and I don’t even bother trying to fight it.
I barely glance at the grocery bags on my way out of the kitchen. They can sit there for all I care. It’s not like I’m eating much anyway.
But I still catch sight of myself in the reflection of the dark microwave door. It’s an accident.
Don’t look.
Something inside me feels like acid. It makes me want to put my fist through the damn reflection. I look away immediately.
I don’t want to see this hollowed-out version of myself. Hollow eyes. Hollow cheeks. Hollow soul.
The hair that needs cutting, the shoulders slumped under the weight of emotional exhaustion, the pained grimace that is becoming a permanent fixture around here.
I look like shit. I feel like shit.
I used to be strong, resilient. I used to be… more. But now I’m just a ghost. I’m not the guy Cassie used to know.
I hate this version of myself. The one who limps down grocery store aisles, who wakes up every morning already exhausted. The one who stares at old pictures but refuses to delete them like some pathetic part of me still believes I’ll ever get that life back.
As I walk into the living room, my eyes flick to the far corner, to the cardboard box shoved under the desk. My old hiking boots hiding inside it. The ones I used to lace up without a second thought, the ones that carried me up mountains, through forests, over miles of untouched trails.
I haven’t worn them in over a year.
My fingers twitch. I should throw them out.
But I know I won’t.
I sink down onto the couch, letting my head fall back against the cushions. The apartment is silent, the kind of dead quiet that used to be peaceful but now feels oppressive.
This isn’t home.
It’s not my dorm at UPenn, where there was always laughter. It’s not my old apartment with its cluttered bookshelves and the couch Cassie used to crash on when we worked too late on a game project.
It’s not the ocean or the mountains or the endless possibilities of a Saturday morning with a packed bag and a full tank of gas.
It’s just this. These sad walls. This empty silence.
And me.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
I was supposed to have everything. I was supposed to be someone.
But now I can’t even find the energy to put my fucking groceries away.
I feel the weight settle heavier in my chest again. The burden of my entire past colliding with reality is just sitting here, preventing me from taking a deep breath. It’s a suffocating kind of grief, the kind that doesn’t rip through you all at once, but lingers—clawing, gnawing, whispering that this is all that’s left.
I shut my eyes, try to block it out.
It doesn’t help. All I see is Cassie’ face. The image of her is seared into my brain—her wide brown eyes, the way her lips parted in shock before stretching into that too-bright, too-relieved smile.
Like she actually missed me.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. My shoulders ache from the weight of it all—the weight of her seeing me like this.
I shouldn’t have let her drive me home. I shouldn’t have let her see where I live. I should’ve walked away before she had the chance to really look at me and notice everything that’s wrong.
Cassie felt like a lifeline.
I rub my knuckles into my eyes. She’s a piece of my old life—the part I had to cut off like a rotting limb when everything fell apart. The part that belonged to the guy who pulled all-nighters coding, hiked every weekend, surfed whenever he had time off.
That guy is gone. And now she knows.
She tried to play it cool at the store, but I saw it in her eyes. The recognition. The frustration. The worry.
I can’t let her see more. I can’t let her dig into the truth. Because the truth is ugly and draining and just… too much.
summary: After assassinating a corrupt CEO, a man on the run turns to an unlikely ally—the girl who worked at the hostel he stayed at before the crime. She shouldn't let him in. He shouldn't trust her. In a world that's already taken too much from them both, how far can hope go when it’s built on the edge of a bullet?
Not that she really slept—more like she drifted in and out, her body exhausted but her mind refusing to stop spinning.
Pale blue light filters through the blinds, cold and soft. She lies there in the quiet for a few minutes, the kind of stillness that only comes right before the city wakes up.
When she hears the soft rustle of fabric from the living room, she pushes herself out of bed and pulls on a hoodie. Gabriella pads down the hall barefoot like the floor isn’t cold enough to make her flinch, rubbing at her tired eyes. The moment she peeks into the living room, she freezes.
L’s there, folding the blanket from the couch with slow, deliberate care. His jacket is already on, backpack slung over one shoulder, like he’s preparing for a quiet exit.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” she blurts.
He turns, clearly caught off guard, eyes wide like he’s been caught stealing. “I… told you I’d be gone in the morning.”
She crosses her arms and he just stares at her like he’s still trying to figure out if she’s angry or just sleep-deprived.
“I meant what I said,” he continues. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
Gabriella shakes her head as if that’s the most absurd thing she’s heard all year. “You’re not going back out there.”
He blinks, like he’s not sure he heard her right. His mouth opens like he wants to argue, but she cuts him off.
“It’s dangerous.”
“I’ll be fine,” he mutters, but it’s not convincing. He doesn’t even sound like he believes it himself.
“No,” she cuts in, stepping closer. “You look like shit. You barely made it through the night. You think I didn’t notice how long it took you just to sit down? How hard you were breathing?”
He looks away. Shame flickers across his face.
“You’re not going back to sleeping in alleyways or whatever the hell you were doing before this. You can stay here for a while,” she says simply. “As long as you need until you… figure things out.”
“I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You’re not,” she says with some finality to her tone.
He shifts his weight, clearly still uncomfortable.
“Besides,” she adds, after a few seconds of heavy silence. “I’m not going to pretend I don’t sleep better knowing you’re not out there getting chased or shot at.”
He stands there, motionless, staring, like he’s trying to recalibrate his entire world view.
“Gabby…” He tries, but she’s already moving past him toward the kitchen.
“I’m making breakfast. You like eggs, right?” She opens the fridge, grabs a carton of eggs like it's the most natural thing in the world. “Scrambled okay?”
L doesn’t answer right away. When she glances over her shoulder, he’s still standing there like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Eventually, he exhales and lets his backpack drop to the floor.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Scrambled’s good.”
She doesn’t look at him again, but the smallest smile pulls at her lips as she cracks the first egg into the pan.
Behind her, he’s quiet for a beat too long. Then, carefully—almost like he's afraid of what the answer might be—he says, “Do you mean that?”
She pauses, mid-stir, glancing over her shoulder. “Mean what?”
“That… you sleep better knowing I’m not out there. In danger.”
Her eyes meet his. He looks so unsure. Like he’s bracing himself for her to take it back, to say she was just being polite.
Gabriella sets the whisk down. “Yeah,” she says, voice low but certain. “I mean it.”
His brow furrows slightly, as if he’s still trying to make sense of it. “Why?”
She shrugs, but it’s not casual. If anything, it looks like the gesture takes effort. “Because I care, L. Because you don’t deserve to be out there alone. And because I don’t want to hear about some guy found in a back alley and wonder if it was you.”
The silence that follows is thick. Charged. Fragile, like glass in a storm.
Gabriella turns back to the eggs, whisking like she can beat the tension right out of the room.
“And also,” she adds, reaching for levity, “you have that aura that all terrible liars have. If someone stopped you on the street, you’d probably fold in thirty seconds.”
Behind her, there’s a quiet laugh. She glances at him.
He’s leaning against the counter now, arms crossed, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“When you walked into my place last night, looking the way you did, I think I finally realized how fucking close I came to never seeing you again.” She swallows, pouring the eggs into the pan like the motion demands more focus than it actually does.
“And… I wanted to see you again,” voice dipping into something barely audible. The words are softer, almost shy.
From the corner of her eye, she catches the way his head lifts. But he doesn’t interrupt. Just watches her like he can’t figure out if he heard her right.
“I didn’t realize it until it was too late,” she says, her voice gaining steadiness now that the floodgates are open. “Until you were gone from the hostel and I didn’t even get to say goodbye. I thought maybe you just left early. And I told myself that was fine.”
She shakes her head. Exhales, almost as if sharing this is costing her something. But the words keep pouring out of her like water from a broken dam.
L just lets her talk, maybe sensing this is something she had trapped inside that’s finally clawing its way out. He’s quiet, but she can feel him watching her, the weight of his gaze pressing into the space between them.
“I kept thinking about you. Wondering where you’d gone. If you got to wherever you were going okay. I didn’t think it’d hit me like that, but it did.”
He shifts behind her—the scrape of a sneaker against tile—and she feels it, his presence drawing closer, even if he doesn’t speak.
She doesn’t look at him. Can’t.
There’s another pause, like she’s bracing herself.
“And then I saw your face on the news.”
The words land like something heavy. She doesn’t need to describe the way her stomach dropped or how long she sat frozen on the couch. It’s all there in her voice, in the silence that follows.
“I don’t know what I felt in that moment,” she says, scraping the pan with the spatula like that makes the words come out any easier. “Shock. Fear. Maybe even anger. But mostly?” Her voice dips. “I felt sick.”
She taps the spatula against the edge of the pan, clearing the excess, the motion automatic because her mind is entirely somewhere else.
“Because I thought I was never going to see you again. And I hated that.”
L doesn’t speak right away. But when he does, it’s soft, barely above a whisper.
“I didn’t think you’d care."
She turns the stove off, and finally looks at him again.
“I didn’t think I would either,” she admits. “But I was wrong.”
That’s when he finally moves—just a step, almost imperceptible, but enough for her to notice the shift. His posture, always guarded, loosens like some internal wall has finally cracked. For a second, he looks like he’s about to say something, but then he just exhales—quiet, shaky, like he’s letting go of something he didn’t realize he was holding.
His eyes meet hers, and there’s something raw in them. Not surprise. Not even relief. Something deeper. Like her words just pulled the floor out from under him, and he’s still trying to find his footing.
“Thank you,” he says eventually, voice low. Honest.
She raises an eyebrow. “For what?”
“For giving a shit,” he says, and there’s a crooked little smile forming now—tired, disbelieving, but real. “For saying it out loud.”
Gabriella leans her hip against the counter, turning to face him fully. The spatula hangs loose in her hand.
“Do you remember that conversation we had by the vending machines?” she asks, her voice quieter now.
“You asked about my headaches. Most people just tell me I look tired and move on. You actually asked questions. Real ones.” She shakes her head a little, almost like she still can’t believe it. “You weren’t just being polite or making small talk. You were genuinely interested.”
L’s brow pulls together, like he doesn’t understand why she’s so shocked. “You were hurting. I could see it.”
“I was just the girl behind the desk to them,” she adds. “Polite, helpful, replaceable. Nobody ever asked about my headaches. Not when I complained about the shitty air freshener, or when I kept holding cold water bottles to my temple. But you just took one look at me and asked.” Her eyes meet his. “And you meant it.”
He opens his mouth like he might say something, but nothing comes out at first. Then, finally, “I did.”
“You saw more of me in that fifteen-minute conversation than some of my coworkers ever bothered to notice the whole time I worked there."
He doesn’t say anything, but his expression shifts—something softer, something aching. Gabriella exhales and looks away, staring down at the cooling pan like it might anchor her to the moment.
“And I don’t just mean the migraines,” she goes on. “You remembered things. Like, what I said about night shifts being a gamble, and the karaoke joke. And you looked at me like I mattered. Like I wasn’t invisible.”
He looks up at her, startled—but not by disbelief. Like he understands exactly what she means.
“People come and go in that place all the time, but you actually looked.” Her voice wavers for half a second, then steadies again. “And I didn’t even realize how rare that was until you were gone.”
A beat passes. His brows pull together like he wants to argue with that, like it surprises him. But he doesn’t. He just watches her, carefully, like he’s realizing something important and doesn’t want to ruin it by speaking too soon.
She sighs. “You paid attention. I think that’s why it stuck with me,” she murmurs. “Why you stuck with me. You saw me.”
He stares at her for a long moment, like the words take a second to land. Then his expression shifts—barely, but enough. The tension in his jaw softens. His eyes flicker, like he’s not sure whether to breathe or break.
Slowly, his arms uncross. His shoulders drop, just slightly. A quiet, almost disbelieving breath leaves his lungs.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever said something like that to me before,” he says, voice low and raw around the edges. He takes a tentative step closer, then stops, as if afraid going any further might shatter whatever this is. “Not without wanting something back.”
There’s no sarcasm in it. No armor. Just quiet truth, stripped bare.
Gabriella’s throat tightens. She wants to say something—anything—but for a second, all she can do is hold his gaze.
“You’re not alone anymore, L,” she says finally. “Not if you don’t want to be.”
That’s what undoes him.
He looks away first, like her words hit something too vulnerable to hold her stare. He nods once, just barely—more a breath than a gesture—and runs a hand through his black curls like he’s trying to ground himself.
And she doesn’t press. Just turns back to the pan and plates the food like it’s the most ordinary morning in the world. With practiced movements, she splits the eggs between two chipped plates and sets them on the table. No ceremony, just quiet routine.
“Eat,” she says gently, taking the seat across from him. He gives her a grateful nod as he sits down and picks up his fork.
She watches from beneath lowered lashes, pretending not to notice how quickly he devours the eggs. He tries to pace himself, as if he doesn’t want her to see how hungry he really is, but the speed of his bites gives him away. Her heart aches a little, and she wonders just how long it’s been since he had a proper meal—and what else he’s gone without.
Every bite disappears too fast. When he finishes, he sets the fork down carefully, almost embarrassed by the empty plate in front of him. Gabriella doesn’t say anything. Instead, without comment, she pushes her own untouched plate of eggs across the table toward him.
L’s eyes widen. “Gabby, no. You haven’t even eaten.”
She gives him a look—soft, firm, and quietly stubborn. “I’m not that hungry. Just eat.”
For a moment, it looks like he’s going to protest again, but something in her eyes seems to quiet him. His jaw clenches, and he swallows whatever argument he might’ve wanted to make. His gaze lowers, accepting, as he picks up the fork once more.
Gabriella leans back, grabbing an apple from the bowl at the center of the table, watching him quietly. He eats slowly this time, eyes downcast but shoulders relaxing gradually. She doesn’t press him or break the silence. Right now, this small gesture—the second plate of eggs, the quiet understanding—is enough.
After breakfast, he starts stacking their plates, quietly gathering utensils and bringing everything to the sink. Gabriella watches him for a second before pushing her chair back.
"You don’t have to do that," she says, voice soft.
"You cooked," he replies simply. "Least I can do."
She crosses her arms loosely, leaning against the counter. “You don’t have to earn your stay.”
That makes him pause.
His hands hover over the dish soap, and for a moment he just stands there—back to her, shoulders rigid. “I know. I’m doing it anyway.”
He stands at the sink, sleeves rolled up, steam rising gently from the warm water as he starts rinsing the plates. His movements are methodical, almost too careful, like he’s focusing all his attention on not breaking anything.
Gabriella joins him a few seconds later, leaning against the counter beside him with a dish towel in hand, taking the plates as he finishes with them.
She’s the first to break the quiet.
“Why’d you come to my place?” she asks, not looking at him. “Out of everyone… everywhere. You could’ve gone anywhere.”
He doesn’t answer right away. He scrubs at the pan like it’s done something personal to him.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low. “I thought about it. I tried to. But every time I pictured knocking on some stranger’s door, hiding in some alley, sleeping under a bridge...”
There’s a long pause.
He lowers the pan into the drying rack and rests his hands on the edge of the sink. His voice is quieter when he finally answers. “I remembered how you looked at me. That night. And I kept thinking about what you said when we played pool that one morning after your shift.”
Gabriella her weight slightly, drying a plate more slowly than necessary. “Which part?” she asks, though her heart already knows. She just wants to hear him say it.
He glances at her, then looks down again, voice steady but softer now. “You said most people only see the parts of you that are useful. That no one really looks at you like a person unless they need something.” His fingers flex slightly against the rim of the sink. “But you looked tired that morning. Worn out. And you still laughed with me like I wasn’t just some guy passing through.”
She swallows around the lump that forms unexpectedly in her throat.
“I didn’t want to be just a ghost in someone else’s hallway again,” he says. “I didn’t know where else to go. But I was hoping you’d remember me. Not just my face—me.”
Gabriella sets the plate down carefully and folds the towel in her hands. “You weren’t wrong.”
They stand like that for a moment—him at the sink, her beside him, both pretending they’re still busy with dishes even though neither of them is moving anymore.
He meets her eyes again, and this time he doesn’t look away. “That’s why I came back. Because you made me feel like someone worth remembering.”
The air feels heavier between them now, charged with something unspoken. But it’s not uncomfortable. It’s just real.
Gabriella swallows hard, blinking fast before handing him the towel. He dries his hands on it, but doesn’t move away from the sink.
“How bad was it?” he asks quietly. “With the cops, I mean.”
Gabriella leans against the counter beside him, arms crossing over her chest. “They showed up the morning after your face hit the news,” she says. “Two of them. Said they had questions, but they weren’t really asking. They were looking—for anything. For reasons to pin me to it.”
He turns slightly to look at her, expression unreadable.
“They tried to play good cop, bad cop, maybe hoping they’d catch me on a lie. Asked if I remembered your name, if you said anything suspicious, any other details about you. They made it sound like I’d handed you the gun instead of a room key.”
She says it like she’s telling a story that happened to someone else, but the tension in her jaw says otherwise.
He tenses beside her. “What did you tell them?”
“I told them the truth,” she says. Then after a beat, she adds, “Kinda.”
That catches his attention. He looks at her, eyes narrowing slightly—not suspicious, but curious. Careful.
“I never even told them that we talked afterwards. Or that we played pool. Didn’t tell them about the hot chocolate you brought me because the damn vending machine was broken again.”
That makes him pause. Really pause.
He watches her a little longer, like he’s trying to see through her skin to the parts of her she isn’t saying out loud. “Why didn’t you tell them?”
She shrugs, but it’s forced. “Because they didn’t deserve to know. And because it felt like…” She hesitates, then finally meets his eyes. “Like I’d be betraying you.”
His breath catches. Just a fraction. But she hears it.
He looks away, eyes flicking to the window like he needs something else to focus on. The guilt is obvious in the set of his shoulders, in the way his hands clench at his sides. “You lost your job because of me.”
“You didn’t get me fired.”
“I didn’t not,” he says, voice rougher than before. “If I hadn’t shown up—”
“Stop.” Her voice is sharp, firmer than before. “Don’t you dare.”
He falls quiet.
She places a hand softly on his shoulder, makes sure he sees her face when she says it. “You didn’t do this to me. The system did. You think they needed you as an excuse to drop me? They were just waiting for one.”
His mouth opens like he’s going to argue, but he doesn’t.
She lets out a breath, softer now. “I’ll find something else. I don’t know what yet, but I always do.”
A long silence stretches between them. Then, gently:
“Is there any chance they’d give it back? Your job?”
She shakes her head. “No. And after what they did, I wouldn’t want it back anyway. They can all get fucked.”
The corner of his lips tugs up a little for a moment.
They stand there just look at each other for moment—like the space between them isn’t a shitty kitchen in a tiny apartment but something more fragile. Something worth keeping and protecting.
“I’ve got a heating pad, if you need it,” she says casually, like it’s just a passing thought. Like she didn’t spend half the night replaying the way he lowered himself onto the couch like every movement cost him.
Lu blinks at her, caught off guard. “How did you know?”
She glances over her shoulder. “The way you sat last night. Too stiff, like you were trying not to move your spine if you could help it.”
He huffs a soft laugh through his nose, sounding a bit impressed. “You don’t miss much, do you?”
“Not when I care.”
That quiets him. He glances away, jaw ticking slightly before he nods again, more to himself than her.
“I’ve got back issues,” he says eventually, tone casual but wearied. “Surgery a few months ago. Didn’t really fix it. Just… changed the pain, I guess.”
Gabriella says nothing at first. Just lets it sit between them—the way most people don’t. No forced sympathy. No half-assed advice.
Then she turns back to the counter and starts filling the electric kettle to heat up water without waiting for him to ask.
He looks at her like he doesn’t know what to do with all this quiet kindness. Like it’s almost too much.
But he doesn't tell her to stop.
“Go sit down,” she says, not looking at him as she sets the kettle on its base and clicks the button. “Find us something mindless to watch. Crap TV. The trashier the better.”
She glances up to see if he’s moving. But he isn’t.
He’s still standing there, watching her with that unreadable look again. The one that makes her stomach tighten without understanding why.
“L?” she prompts, tilting her head slightly.
He hesitates—just long enough for her to think maybe he’s about to say something difficult—but then he steps forward.
And pulls her into a hug.
It’s not careful. It’s not guarded. He just wraps his arms around her and exhales, like his whole body’s been holding something in for too long.
Gabriella freezes for half a second, thrown off by the suddenness of it. But then her hands lift and curl around his back, and she hugs him back just as tight.
No one says anything. The kettle hums steadily behind them, filling the room with soft, rising steam.
She doesn’t ask why he needed it. She doesn’t have to.
summary: After assassinating a corrupt CEO, a man on the run turns to an unlikely ally—the girl who worked at the hostel he stayed at before the crime. She shouldn't let him in. He shouldn't trust her. In a world that's already taken too much from them both, how far can hope go when it’s built on the edge of a bullet?
Not that she really slept—more like she drifted in and out, her body exhausted but her mind refusing to stop spinning.
Pale blue light filters through the blinds, cold and soft. She lies there in the quiet for a few minutes, the kind of stillness that only comes right before the city wakes up.
When she hears the soft rustle of fabric from the living room, she pushes herself out of bed and pulls on a hoodie. Gabriella pads down the hall barefoot like the floor isn’t cold enough to make her flinch, rubbing at her tired eyes. The moment she peeks into the living room, she freezes.
L’s there, folding the blanket from the couch with slow, deliberate care. His jacket is already on, backpack slung over one shoulder, like he’s preparing for a quiet exit.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” she blurts.
He turns, clearly caught off guard, eyes wide like he’s been caught stealing. “I… told you I’d be gone in the morning.”
She crosses her arms and he just stares at her like he’s still trying to figure out if she’s angry or just sleep-deprived.
“I meant what I said,” he continues. “I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”
Gabriella shakes her head as if that’s the most absurd thing she’s heard all year. “You’re not going back out there.”
He blinks, like he’s not sure he heard her right. His mouth opens like he wants to argue, but she cuts him off.
“It’s dangerous.”
“I’ll be fine,” he mutters, but it’s not convincing. He doesn’t even sound like he believes it himself.
“No,” she cuts in, stepping closer. “You look like shit. You barely made it through the night. You think I didn’t notice how long it took you just to sit down? How hard you were breathing?”
He looks away. Shame flickers across his face.
“You’re not going back to sleeping in alleyways or whatever the hell you were doing before this. You can stay here for a while,” she says simply. “As long as you need until you… figure things out.”
“I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You’re not,” she says with some finality to her tone.
He shifts his weight, clearly still uncomfortable.
“Besides,” she adds, after a few seconds of heavy silence. “I’m not going to pretend I don’t sleep better knowing you’re not out there getting chased or shot at.”
He stands there, motionless, staring, like he’s trying to recalibrate his entire world view.
“Gabby…” He tries, but she’s already moving past him toward the kitchen.
“I’m making breakfast. You like eggs, right?” She opens the fridge, grabs a carton of eggs like it's the most natural thing in the world. “Scrambled okay?”
L doesn’t answer right away. When she glances over her shoulder, he’s still standing there like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Eventually, he exhales and lets his backpack drop to the floor.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Scrambled’s good.”
She doesn’t look at him again, but the smallest smile pulls at her lips as she cracks the first egg into the pan.
Behind her, he’s quiet for a beat too long. Then, carefully—almost like he's afraid of what the answer might be—he says, “Do you mean that?”
She pauses, mid-stir, glancing over her shoulder. “Mean what?”
“That… you sleep better knowing I’m not out there. In danger.”
Her eyes meet his. He looks so unsure. Like he’s bracing himself for her to take it back, to say she was just being polite.
Gabriella sets the whisk down. “Yeah,” she says, voice low but certain. “I mean it.”
His brow furrows slightly, as if he’s still trying to make sense of it. “Why?”
She shrugs, but it’s not casual. If anything, it looks like the gesture takes effort. “Because I care, L. Because you don’t deserve to be out there alone. And because I don’t want to hear about some guy found in a back alley and wonder if it was you.”
The silence that follows is thick. Charged. Fragile, like glass in a storm.
Gabriella turns back to the eggs, whisking like she can beat the tension right out of the room.
“And also,” she adds, reaching for levity, “you have that aura that all terrible liars have. If someone stopped you on the street, you’d probably fold in thirty seconds.”
Behind her, there’s a quiet laugh. She glances at him.
He’s leaning against the counter now, arms crossed, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“When you walked into my place last night, looking the way you did, I think I finally realized how fucking close I came to never seeing you again.” She swallows, pouring the eggs into the pan like the motion demands more focus than it actually does.
“And… I wanted to see you again,” voice dipping into something barely audible. The words are softer, almost shy.
From the corner of her eye, she catches the way his head lifts. But he doesn’t interrupt. Just watches her like he can’t figure out if he heard her right.
“I didn’t realize it until it was too late,” she says, her voice gaining steadiness now that the floodgates are open. “Until you were gone from the hostel and I didn’t even get to say goodbye. I thought maybe you just left early. And I told myself that was fine.”
She shakes her head. Exhales, almost as if sharing this is costing her something. But the words keep pouring out of her like water from a broken dam.
L just lets her talk, maybe sensing this is something she had trapped inside that’s finally clawing its way out. He’s quiet, but she can feel him watching her, the weight of his gaze pressing into the space between them.
“I kept thinking about you. Wondering where you’d gone. If you got to wherever you were going okay. I didn’t think it’d hit me like that, but it did.”
He shifts behind her—the scrape of a sneaker against tile—and she feels it, his presence drawing closer, even if he doesn’t speak.
She doesn’t look at him. Can’t.
There’s another pause, like she’s bracing herself.
“And then I saw your face on the news.”
The words land like something heavy. She doesn’t need to describe the way her stomach dropped or how long she sat frozen on the couch. It’s all there in her voice, in the silence that follows.
“I don’t know what I felt in that moment,” she says, scraping the pan with the spatula like that makes the words come out any easier. “Shock. Fear. Maybe even anger. But mostly?” Her voice dips. “I felt sick.”
She taps the spatula against the edge of the pan, clearing the excess, the motion automatic because her mind is entirely somewhere else.
“Because I thought I was never going to see you again. And I hated that.”
L doesn’t speak right away. But when he does, it’s soft, barely above a whisper.
“I didn’t think you’d care."
She turns the stove off, and finally looks at him again.
“I didn’t think I would either,” she admits. “But I was wrong.”
That’s when he finally moves—just a step, almost imperceptible, but enough for her to notice the shift. His posture, always guarded, loosens like some internal wall has finally cracked. For a second, he looks like he’s about to say something, but then he just exhales—quiet, shaky, like he’s letting go of something he didn’t realize he was holding.
His eyes meet hers, and there’s something raw in them. Not surprise. Not even relief. Something deeper. Like her words just pulled the floor out from under him, and he’s still trying to find his footing.
“Thank you,” he says eventually, voice low. Honest.
She raises an eyebrow. “For what?”
“For giving a shit,” he says, and there’s a crooked little smile forming now—tired, disbelieving, but real. “For saying it out loud.”
Gabriella leans her hip against the counter, turning to face him fully. The spatula hangs loose in her hand.
“Do you remember that conversation we had by the vending machines?” she asks, her voice quieter now.
“You asked about my headaches. Most people just tell me I look tired and move on. You actually asked questions. Real ones.” She shakes her head a little, almost like she still can’t believe it. “You weren’t just being polite or making small talk. You were genuinely interested.”
L’s brow pulls together, like he doesn’t understand why she’s so shocked. “You were hurting. I could see it.”
“I was just the girl behind the desk to them,” she adds. “Polite, helpful, replaceable. Nobody ever asked about my headaches. Not when I complained about the shitty air freshener, or when I kept holding cold water bottles to my temple. But you just took one look at me and asked.” Her eyes meet his. “And you meant it.”
He opens his mouth like he might say something, but nothing comes out at first. Then, finally, “I did.”
“You saw more of me in that fifteen-minute conversation than some of my coworkers ever bothered to notice the whole time I worked there."
He doesn’t say anything, but his expression shifts—something softer, something aching. Gabriella exhales and looks away, staring down at the cooling pan like it might anchor her to the moment.
“And I don’t just mean the migraines,” she goes on. “You remembered things. Like, what I said about night shifts being a gamble, and the karaoke joke. And you looked at me like I mattered. Like I wasn’t invisible.”
He looks up at her, startled—but not by disbelief. Like he understands exactly what she means.
“People come and go in that place all the time, but you actually looked.” Her voice wavers for half a second, then steadies again. “And I didn’t even realize how rare that was until you were gone.”
A beat passes. His brows pull together like he wants to argue with that, like it surprises him. But he doesn’t. He just watches her, carefully, like he’s realizing something important and doesn’t want to ruin it by speaking too soon.
She sighs. “You paid attention. I think that’s why it stuck with me,” she murmurs. “Why you stuck with me. You saw me.”
He stares at her for a long moment, like the words take a second to land. Then his expression shifts—barely, but enough. The tension in his jaw softens. His eyes flicker, like he’s not sure whether to breathe or break.
Slowly, his arms uncross. His shoulders drop, just slightly. A quiet, almost disbelieving breath leaves his lungs.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever said something like that to me before,” he says, voice low and raw around the edges. He takes a tentative step closer, then stops, as if afraid going any further might shatter whatever this is. “Not without wanting something back.”
There’s no sarcasm in it. No armor. Just quiet truth, stripped bare.
Gabriella’s throat tightens. She wants to say something—anything—but for a second, all she can do is hold his gaze.
“You’re not alone anymore, L,” she says finally. “Not if you don’t want to be.”
That’s what undoes him.
He looks away first, like her words hit something too vulnerable to hold her stare. He nods once, just barely—more a breath than a gesture—and runs a hand through his black curls like he’s trying to ground himself.
And she doesn’t press. Just turns back to the pan and plates the food like it’s the most ordinary morning in the world. With practiced movements, she splits the eggs between two chipped plates and sets them on the table. No ceremony, just quiet routine.
“Eat,” she says gently, taking the seat across from him. He gives her a grateful nod as he sits down and picks up his fork.
She watches from beneath lowered lashes, pretending not to notice how quickly he devours the eggs. He tries to pace himself, as if he doesn’t want her to see how hungry he really is, but the speed of his bites gives him away. Her heart aches a little, and she wonders just how long it’s been since he had a proper meal—and what else he’s gone without.
Every bite disappears too fast. When he finishes, he sets the fork down carefully, almost embarrassed by the empty plate in front of him. Gabriella doesn’t say anything. Instead, without comment, she pushes her own untouched plate of eggs across the table toward him.
L’s eyes widen. “Gabby, no. You haven’t even eaten.”
She gives him a look—soft, firm, and quietly stubborn. “I’m not that hungry. Just eat.”
For a moment, it looks like he’s going to protest again, but something in her eyes seems to quiet him. His jaw clenches, and he swallows whatever argument he might’ve wanted to make. His gaze lowers, accepting, as he picks up the fork once more.
Gabriella leans back, grabbing an apple from the bowl at the center of the table, watching him quietly. He eats slowly this time, eyes downcast but shoulders relaxing gradually. She doesn’t press him or break the silence. Right now, this small gesture—the second plate of eggs, the quiet understanding—is enough.
After breakfast, he starts stacking their plates, quietly gathering utensils and bringing everything to the sink. Gabriella watches him for a second before pushing her chair back.
"You don’t have to do that," she says, voice soft.
"You cooked," he replies simply. "Least I can do."
She crosses her arms loosely, leaning against the counter. “You don’t have to earn your stay.”
That makes him pause.
His hands hover over the dish soap, and for a moment he just stands there—back to her, shoulders rigid. “I know. I’m doing it anyway.”
He stands at the sink, sleeves rolled up, steam rising gently from the warm water as he starts rinsing the plates. His movements are methodical, almost too careful, like he’s focusing all his attention on not breaking anything.
Gabriella joins him a few seconds later, leaning against the counter beside him with a dish towel in hand, taking the plates as he finishes with them.
She’s the first to break the quiet.
“Why’d you come to my place?” she asks, not looking at him. “Out of everyone… everywhere. You could’ve gone anywhere.”
He doesn’t answer right away. He scrubs at the pan like it’s done something personal to him.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low. “I thought about it. I tried to. But every time I pictured knocking on some stranger’s door, hiding in some alley, sleeping under a bridge...”
There’s a long pause.
He lowers the pan into the drying rack and rests his hands on the edge of the sink. His voice is quieter when he finally answers. “I remembered how you looked at me. That night. And I kept thinking about what you said when we played pool that one morning after your shift.”
Gabriella her weight slightly, drying a plate more slowly than necessary. “Which part?” she asks, though her heart already knows. She just wants to hear him say it.
He glances at her, then looks down again, voice steady but softer now. “You said most people only see the parts of you that are useful. That no one really looks at you like a person unless they need something.” His fingers flex slightly against the rim of the sink. “But you looked tired that morning. Worn out. And you still laughed with me like I wasn’t just some guy passing through.”
She swallows around the lump that forms unexpectedly in her throat.
“I didn’t want to be just a ghost in someone else’s hallway again,” he says. “I didn’t know where else to go. But I was hoping you’d remember me. Not just my face—me.”
Gabriella sets the plate down carefully and folds the towel in her hands. “You weren’t wrong.”
They stand like that for a moment—him at the sink, her beside him, both pretending they’re still busy with dishes even though neither of them is moving anymore.
He meets her eyes again, and this time he doesn’t look away. “That’s why I came back. Because you made me feel like someone worth remembering.”
The air feels heavier between them now, charged with something unspoken. But it’s not uncomfortable. It’s just real.
Gabriella swallows hard, blinking fast before handing him the towel. He dries his hands on it, but doesn’t move away from the sink.
“How bad was it?” he asks quietly. “With the cops, I mean.”
Gabriella leans against the counter beside him, arms crossing over her chest. “They showed up the morning after your face hit the news,” she says. “Two of them. Said they had questions, but they weren’t really asking. They were looking—for anything. For reasons to pin me to it.”
He turns slightly to look at her, expression unreadable.
“They tried to play good cop, bad cop, maybe hoping they’d catch me on a lie. Asked if I remembered your name, if you said anything suspicious, any other details about you. They made it sound like I’d handed you the gun instead of a room key.”
She says it like she’s telling a story that happened to someone else, but the tension in her jaw says otherwise.
He tenses beside her. “What did you tell them?”
“I told them the truth,” she says. Then after a beat, she adds, “Kinda.”
That catches his attention. He looks at her, eyes narrowing slightly—not suspicious, but curious. Careful.
“I never even told them that we talked afterwards. Or that we played pool. Didn’t tell them about the hot chocolate you brought me because the damn vending machine was broken again.”
That makes him pause. Really pause.
He watches her a little longer, like he’s trying to see through her skin to the parts of her she isn’t saying out loud. “Why didn’t you tell them?”
She shrugs, but it’s forced. “Because they didn’t deserve to know. And because it felt like…” She hesitates, then finally meets his eyes. “Like I’d be betraying you.”
His breath catches. Just a fraction. But she hears it.
He looks away, eyes flicking to the window like he needs something else to focus on. The guilt is obvious in the set of his shoulders, in the way his hands clench at his sides. “You lost your job because of me.”
“You didn’t get me fired.”
“I didn’t not,” he says, voice rougher than before. “If I hadn’t shown up—”
“Stop.” Her voice is sharp, firmer than before. “Don’t you dare.”
He falls quiet.
She places a hand softly on his shoulder, makes sure he sees her face when she says it. “You didn’t do this to me. The system did. You think they needed you as an excuse to drop me? They were just waiting for one.”
His mouth opens like he’s going to argue, but he doesn’t.
She lets out a breath, softer now. “I’ll find something else. I don’t know what yet, but I always do.”
A long silence stretches between them. Then, gently:
“Is there any chance they’d give it back? Your job?”
She shakes her head. “No. And after what they did, I wouldn’t want it back anyway. They can all get fucked.”
The corner of his lips tugs up a little for a moment.
They stand there just look at each other for moment—like the space between them isn’t a shitty kitchen in a tiny apartment but something more fragile. Something worth keeping and protecting.
“I’ve got a heating pad, if you need it,” she says casually, like it’s just a passing thought. Like she didn’t spend half the night replaying the way he lowered himself onto the couch like every movement cost him.
Lu blinks at her, caught off guard. “How did you know?”
She glances over her shoulder. “The way you sat last night. Too stiff, like you were trying not to move your spine if you could help it.”
He huffs a soft laugh through his nose, sounding a bit impressed. “You don’t miss much, do you?”
“Not when I care.”
That quiets him. He glances away, jaw ticking slightly before he nods again, more to himself than her.
“I’ve got back issues,” he says eventually, tone casual but wearied. “Surgery a few months ago. Didn’t really fix it. Just… changed the pain, I guess.”
Gabriella says nothing at first. Just lets it sit between them—the way most people don’t. No forced sympathy. No half-assed advice.
Then she turns back to the counter and starts filling the electric kettle to heat up water without waiting for him to ask.
He looks at her like he doesn’t know what to do with all this quiet kindness. Like it’s almost too much.
But he doesn't tell her to stop.
“Go sit down,” she says, not looking at him as she sets the kettle on its base and clicks the button. “Find us something mindless to watch. Crap TV. The trashier the better.”
She glances up to see if he’s moving. But he isn’t.
He’s still standing there, watching her with that unreadable look again. The one that makes her stomach tighten without understanding why.
“L?” she prompts, tilting her head slightly.
He hesitates—just long enough for her to think maybe he’s about to say something difficult—but then he steps forward.
And pulls her into a hug.
It’s not careful. It’s not guarded. He just wraps his arms around her and exhales, like his whole body’s been holding something in for too long.
Gabriella freezes for half a second, thrown off by the suddenness of it. But then her hands lift and curl around his back, and she hugs him back just as tight.
No one says anything. The kettle hums steadily behind them, filling the room with soft, rising steam.
She doesn’t ask why he needed it. She doesn’t have to.
will you continue writing crawling back to you? 😌👉👈
Of course! I actually already have 3 chapters completely ready and the fourth is about halfway done. I'm planning on posting the second chapter this weekend 💚
Hi fayeeee hope you’re doing well!! So excited for hope on a bullet! Any idea when it’ll be ready??
In the meantime, I will be shamelessly checking out this COD piece🫡one of my other favorite Luigi writers also used to write for ghost and I’ve never read COD fanfics so I guess I need to lock in!!! Hot girls write for Luigi and COD apparently!!
I'm okay, thank you! Hope you're doing well too!
HoaB was supposed to be ready already, tbh, but ✨️life✨️ happened and I was pretty much useless last week when it came to writing. I have a very rough first draft of the chapter, and I'm working on it right now. Hoping I can have it ready sometime in the next 2 to 3 days 💚
I never wrote for COD before, but I replayed Modern Warfare 2 recently (from 2022, the superior version because Ghost doesn't die at the end) and my mind just ran with it, as it does with everything that sparks any interest in my little ADHD-riddled brain. I can't resist broken things, so obviously I'm drawn to Ghost like a moth to a flame... [insert meme that goes: "That's my comfort character" but it's a character that hasn't known a single day of peace in their life]
Feel free to let me know who that author is though 👀 Lu + Si girlies should stick together 🤣
#1 is a sunset at a soccer game #2 is a math photo since I have a test soon 😭 #3 is a gun I have on call of duty mobile since I like playing lol #4 is a game arcade that I played at
Tagging ( don’t have to if you don’t want to just for fun) @annafayeink @mashkatzi @christmas-winter @faeriecoma
Feel free to not reply but I just wanted you to know I re-read the first chapter of CBTY and became emotional ( again ), you're an exceptional edited <3
Don't worry, happens to everyone 🤣
Thank you so much for this. It means a lot, every time. 💚
The second chapter of CBTY is gonna hurt so much more
I'm gonna give you an emoji. How about 🎵 because CBTY's title is based on a song by Arctic Monkeys?
Who am I to deny such a desperate request from my lovely followers.
Something very NSFW ahead. Beware.
You’re curled up on the couch in one of his old t-shirts, the fabric hanging loose over your thighs. The TV glows softly in front of you, some mindless sitcom playing, the volume low. You hear the door unlock, and the familiar sound of his heavy footsteps fills the space.
You glance over your shoulder as Lu comes up behind the couch and see it right away—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, shirt already half-untucked. He’s home late, he looks exhausted.
You know exactly what this means. You know the look in his eyes—dark, hungry, worn down from the day and desperate for relief.
He doesn’t say hello. He never does when he’s like this.
You feel it instead—his presence, thick in the air. You hear the clinking of his belt buckle being undone, the zipper being pulled down.
“Rough day?” you ask softly, as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.
“Shit day… Just keep watching your show, baby,” Lu says, low and already thick with want. “I just need to use you right now.”
You blink slowly, heart fluttering, and nod once. “Okay.”
You feel his hand slide up your thigh a moment later, warm and deliberate. He pushes the hem of the shirt up and exhales slowly—no panties, like he told you.
“Fuck,” he breathes, the word more of a growl. “Such a good girl.”
You spread your legs just enough to let him settle behind you, his body heavy and warm against your back as he presses you into the cushions.
His hand grabs your hips, pulling your ass higher, angling you just right. The tip of his cock nudges your entrance, and you gasp at how hard and hot he is—already leaking, already pulsing.
“Shh,” Lu soothes, leaning forward to press his mouth to your ear. “You don’t have to do anything. Just take it, okay?”
You nod, biting your lip, a soft whimper slipping past your throat as he presses in—no warning, no prep. He fills you in one hard thrust, his cock stretching your aching, already slick cunt.
The burn of the stretch makes your eyes flutter. You gasp, the jolt of it stealing your breath, but you stay exactly as you were—like he asked, because you're his good girl—one hand under your cheek, the other gripping the edge of the cushion.
“God, you feel perfect,” Lu groans, thrusting deep again. “Fucking made for this. For me.”
Your body rocks with the force of him, each thrust rougher than the last. He holds your hip with one hand, the other braced on the back of the couch, using you like he said he would—like a toy, a place to bury himself after a long day.
You try to look back at him, try to say something—anything—but he presses a hand to the back of your head and gently pushes you down, chest to the cushions.
“Shh,” he coos. “Stay still, baby. Be good.”
His hips snap harder, faster. He’s panting now, using you completely, chasing his release with zero concern for yours—and it makes you ache in the best way. Your thighs tremble, your body clenching around him involuntarily.
“You’re so good for me,” he grunts, slamming into you. “Letting me fuck you like this. Letting me take what I need.”
You nod against the pillow, biting back moans, every nerve ending on fire, every inch of you aware of the way he fills you completely. Lu is bigger than you ever get used to, thick and heavy inside you, like he was made to ruin you over and over.
He sets a brutal rhythm, using your cunt like it’s his goddamn right—because it is. You gave it to him, every inch. You’re his. His to use. His hole to fuck when he needs it. And you love it. You fucking melt for it.
“Such a good little thing for me,” he growls, fucking you deeper now, faster. “Always here. Always ready.”
You moan quietly, and you feel him twitch inside you. His thrusts get erratic, rougher, but your body stays pliant, submissive, open. You let him use you because you want to—because you love when he gets like this.
“Don’t need anything else. Just this,” he grits out, his voice rough with lust. “Just you.”
Lu rocks into you harder, hips slamming against your ass, skin slapping echoing beneath the sitcom laugh track still playing—forgotten—in the background.
You’re helpless against the rhythm of his body, heart pounding with every thrust, every word. Every breathy, broken sound he makes as he fucks you deeper, like a wild thing, holding your hips right where he wants them.
“Oh fuck,” he growls. “I’m so close. You gonna let me come inside you like this, right?”
“Yes,” you whisper, lost in him and the raw feeling of having him inside, even though you know this isn’t about you. “Please.”
He thrusts once, twice—then groans low and broken as he spills inside you, pulsing thick and hot. He doesn’t stop right away, just keeps grinding into you, making sure every drop stays buried where it belongs.
Lu stills for a moment, hand tracing your spine softly. Then he groans again, softly slumping forward against your back, breathing hard. For a while, he just stays there, cock still buried deep, lips pressed against your shoulder in a long kiss.
Then, quietly, Lu murmurs, “Thank you, baby.”
You smile softly, still not looking away from the screen, even though you hadn’t been following along since he pushed himself into you.
Yayyyy Faye!!! I’m so glad you’re still around ;) already on col and just curious if you’ll post the second chapter or keep it on deck?? I was going to read the new chapter last night but I’m having a procedure today and decided to save it for a comfort read today or tomorrow while I recover🤭
You are a queen. Get plenty of rest and please please take care of yourself!! Your health is more important than anything :)
-🎨
Never thought one day someone would call fics "comfort read" 😭😭😭💚 hope everything went fine with your procedure!
I'm planning on updating HoaB next, and then post another chapter of CBtY while I finish the next chapter of CoL. Hopefully next week will be less chaotic and I'll have more time to focus and write 🤞
And uh... I slept like 10h last night. Didn't even have dinner or anything. I got home and just totally passed out in bed before I had time to do anything. Woke up this morning with my cat trying to snuggle and then had last night's dinner (lasagna) for breakfast! 🤣
summary: Cate’s life is a careful balance of paint-splattered sweaters, rejection emails, and dreams too big to fit in her tiny apartment. Lu’s life is all charm, designer sneakers, and family obligations that come with impossible expectations. They’re best friends, polar opposites—and suddenly fake dating to help Lu survive a high-stakes family dinner. What starts as an improvised act becomes a whirlwind of tangled stories, unspoken truths, and moments that blur the line between pretend and reality. In the chaos of lies they craft together, Cate and Lu might just uncover the truths they’ve been avoiding all along.
The hairstylist and makeup artist Lu had hired for me had both left a little while ago. It was just me now, alone with my reflection. The guest room was familiar—but the reflection was not. I’d barely recognized myself at first, but I had to admit they’d done a damn good job.
The loose, haphazard waves of my hair that I usually let dry on their own had been styled into something smooth that cascaded over my shoulders. Dark liner traced my lashes, just enough to sharpen their shape without overwhelming them. A touch of shimmer at the inner corners made them catch the light—just like the intricate beading of the dress.
The woman who stared back at me in the mirror looked… polished. Elegant, even. It wasn’t a transformation—I still looked like me—but there was an undeniable difference. A refinement.
I pick up my clutch and take one last sweeping look around the room to make sure I’m not forgetting anything. My spare charger is still plugged to the wall beside the bed, but I always keep it here anyway. There’s a hair tie on the nightstand that I don’t even remember leaving there but I’m not gonna need it tonight. The shorts and shirt I always sleep in are already neatly folded on the top drawer of the dresser, so Lu can’t accuse me of being a slob this time.
I ran my hands down the front of my dress, smoothing out invisible wrinkles before turning to leave with a slow exhale.
Lu hadn’t seen me yet.
Stepping out of the guest room, I gathered the fabric of my dress slightly so I wouldn’t trip over the hem. My heels clicked softly against the floor as I moved toward the living room, where I knew he was waiting.
Lu was standing near the kitchen island, back towards me. His suit is a deep shade of charcoal, a midnight blue undertone catching the light just enough to complement my dress. The top buttons of his shirt were still undone, making him look like some kind of magazine spread.
He looked effortlessly good. Like he hadn’t even tried—as usual.
As I approached, I noticed he was messing with the cuffs of his suit jacket, brow slightly furrowed and lips pouting in concentration. But then he glanced up at me.
And froze.
For a second—just a breath of a moment—he didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. His hands stilled at his cuffs, his lips parting slightly as his gaze dragged over me. Slowly, like he was trying to take in every detail. Like he was seeing me for the first time.
I shifted under the weight of his stare, heat creeping up my neck. “You’re staring.”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes darkening ever so slightly before he finally blinked, like he had to remember how. “Cate.” His voice came out quieter than usual, almost like he was saying my name on instinct rather than forming an actual sentence.
I arched a brow, biting back a smirk. “Yes, that is my name.”
“Yeah.” His voice came out almost dazed, softer than usual. Then, clearing his throat, he repeated, “Yeah. I, uh—damn.”
A laugh bubbled in my throat. “That’s all you’ve got? ‘Damn’?”
He dragged a hand through his curls, still looking a little thrown. “Give me a second. I wasn’t ready.” He gestured vaguely in my direction, his eyes flicking up and down like he still couldn’t quite believe what he was looking at. “I mean, look at you.”
His voice was different now—lower, rougher, like the words weren’t quite enough for whatever was running through his mind.
I shifted my weight and shrugged, keeping things easy. “Not bad for someone who usually leaves the house in paint-stained jeans, huh?”
He huffed a laugh, still looking at me like he hadn’t entirely recovered. “Yeah, well… I think I’ve been criminally underestimating what’s under all those paint stains.”
Something flickered inside my chest—dangerous, warm, entirely unwelcome.
I ignored it and rolled my eyes, pretending like I wasn’t entirely affected by the way he was looking at me. “Don’t start getting weird on me now.”
“Too late,” he muttered, still staring.
I exhaled a quiet laugh. “Anyway, I left my sneakers here last time, right? I’m gonna need those when I escape these torture heels later.”
Lu finally blinked, like he was physically shaking himself out of whatever spell he’d been under. “Yeah, they’re in the rack by the door. You planning your exit strategy already?”
I grabbed my clutch off the counter and shot him a look. “Obviously. You think I’m making it through an entire night in these without casualties?” I lifted my foot slightly, the elegant navy fabric of my dress shifting to reveal the delicate strap of my heels. They were stunning, sure, but they were also a calculated risk. The kind of shoes designed more for aesthetics than comfort.
He leaned casually against the counter, arms crossed. “You should just bring a pair of flats to keep in my car.”
I snorted. “What, start keeping emergency backup shoes here? You trying to suggest I move in again?”
A smirk curled at his lips, effortless and a little too knowing. “You do leave stuff here all the time. Sneakers, makeup, sweaters… And somehow you always steal my hoodies.”
“—okay, the hoodie thing is totally normal. Friends borrow each other’s stuff,” I argued.
Lu tilted his head. “You’re not borrowing them. You just kinda… claim them.”
I narrowed my eyes. “That’s how it works, Lu. Finders keepers.”
His smirk deepened. “That’s why I keep finding your stuff in my closet?”
I scoffed. “Okay, that was one time. I left a sweater in the laundry and you hung it up—big deal.”
He shrugged, looking far too pleased with himself. “Guess I’ll have to start keeping a Cate section in my wardrobe.”
Before I could retort, he straightened and pushed off the counter. “C’mon, we should go. Fashionably late isn’t a thing with my mother.”
“Wait…” I walked over to him and grabbed the tie draped over the counter. “You're forgetting something. Come here.”
His tie was a slightly darker shade than the accents on his suit, matching the exact tone of my gown—a subtle coordination that I knew wasn't an accident.
He stepped closer without a word, the space between us shrinking until I could feel the warmth radiating off him. My fingers brushed lightly against his chest as I finished buttoning his shirt. I tried to ignore how solid he felt under the fabric, pretending I didn't notice how his breath hitched ever so slightly at the contact.
Then I looped the silk tie around his neck with a practiced motion. I focused on the knot, fingers moving automatically, but my thoughts drifted. I was halfway through an Eldredge knot when it hit me.
How normal this was. How natural. How close we always stood. How easily we existed in each other’s space without thinking twice. This wasn’t new. This was us. Whatever happened tonight, it wouldn’t change that. We’d still have this.
I tightened the knot gently, the silk gliding between my fingers as I looked up at him. “You nervous?” I asked, my voice quieter now, like I didn’t want to break the moment.
He exhaled slowly, and I felt the warmth of it ghost over my cheek. “Not nervous, just… not looking forward to all the pretense and theatrics.”
I nodded, letting my hands linger for a second longer before stepping back to check my work.
He reached up to feel the knot, smiling. “Seriously? You learned this one?”
I shrugged, a small smile tugging at my lips. “Well, someone had to. You can never get it right.”
There was something about seeing him in a tailored suit that hit differently. It fit perfectly. The crisp lines emphasized the broadness of his shoulders, the slim cut accentuated his frame, and the dark fabric contrasted against his skin.
Suddenly, I had the unsettling realization that I was also staring a little.
I snapped my gaze up. Lu caught me looking, and his smirk immediately turned smug. “Don’t start getting weird on me now,” he echoed.
I huffed a laugh, following him out the door. “Too late.”
The estate was everything I expected and more. Grand, imposing, something that’s not just meant to be a home but a statement—the kind that screams old money and control. I remember Lu once joking it looked like a hotel for emotionally repressed aristocrats and now I could finally understand why. Everything was elegant and sharp lines, from the perfectly trimmed hedges to the windows that probably cost more than my entire apartment.
There was already a line of luxury vehicles ahead of us, each one greeted by gloved valets and ushered into some underground car dimension I would never be rich enough to comprehend.
We pulled up to the circular driveway and Lu put the car in park, turning to me with a crooked smile. “Last chance to run away.”
“Yeah, like I would ever leave you alone with the wolves,” I replied. “Besides, I wouldn’t make it too far in these heels.”
He snorted, then glanced at me with that calm, grounding look he always seemed to have in moments like this—steady, unwavering. I hadn’t even realized how tightly I was clutching my purse until my fingers loosened, the tension slipping away like the receding tide.
Lu got out first and circled around the car to open my door himself, offering me a hand as I stepped out. We walked up the steps with my hand looped around his arm, steadying each other.
The inside of the house was just as extravagant. The reception area was a cathedral of chandeliers, polished floors and gold accents. The air was filled with the soft hum of soft jazz, and the gentle clink of champagne flutes.
Everywhere I looked, people were either subtly scanning the room or leaning in close to exchange pleasantries laced with intent. Every smile looked just a little too sharp around the edges.
Lu guided me through the crowd with effortless familiarity, greeting a few guests by name, offering nods here and there.
I had just enough time to take a breath before I spotted her—his mother, Marina, standing near the marble staircase with a glass of white wine and that same unreadable expression she wore the night before. Regal. Composed. Frostbitten.
“Come on,” Lu said under his breath. “Might as well get this over with.”
We made our way over, and I pasted on the kind of polite smile that felt just shy of a mask.
“Mother,” Lu greeted smoothly. “You remember Cate.”
Her eyes flicked to me with that same slow scan she’d given me in his apartment—only now it was framed by a crowd and decades of social training. She smiled, technically, though nothing about it touched her eyes.
“Cate, how lovely to see you again,” she said, with a tone that made it sound like she hoped it would be the last time she saw me. “I wasn’t sure you’d be able to make it. You look… very polished.”
“Thank you, that’s so much kinder than I expected” I said, keeping my tone pleasant while already simmering on the inside. “And happy anniversary.”
Her gaze lingered just long enough to make me want to squirm, then she turned to signal someone behind her. “Oscar. Come say hello.”
A man in his mid-sixties approached from a nearby conversation. He looked like an older version of Lu, with the same sharp jawline, same hazel eyes, same dark curls—even though his were already turning a little grey here and there.
“Papà, this is Cate,” Lu said, after a brief hug.
“Cate,” Oscar greeted, offering a handshake. “Glad you could join us.”
He didn’t smile, but his tone was smoother than Marina’s. More neutral. He looked me up and down subtly, assessing. And then I saw it—the faint wrinkle of disapproval behind his otherwise calm expression. He was better at hiding it than Marina, but I could tell he agreed with her. About me. About my “relationship” with Lu.
They really were invested in making him miserable because of his love life choices.
Before the silence could stretch any further, two voices cut clean through the hum of the room.
“There you are!”
I turned just in time to see two women making their way over—beautiful, magnetic, and moving with the effortless confidence of people who knew exactly how to own a room. Their energy was a welcome rush of air, slicing through the heaviness like an open window in a stifling corridor.
They swept Lu into a flurry of hugs and cheek kisses, talking over each other, already laughing. Watching them, it didn’t take long to realize who they were.
His sisters.
And for a second, all I could think about was how ridiculously unfair this gene pool was.
Lu introduced the taller one—almost his height—as Francesca. She had Marina’s icy blue eyes but none of her chill, sharp cheekbones that belonged in an old painting. There was warmth in her, immediate and disarming, like she chose to look at you with kindness.
“Cate, we’ve heard so much about you!” she said, turning her attention to me with a smile.
“You have?” I smirked, glancing sideways at Lu, who was now doing a spectacular job of pretending he wasn’t suddenly interested in the pattern on the floor.
“He never shuts up about you, you know,” Francesca added cheerfully.
“Could you not?” Lu muttered under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck.
The other woman—shorter than Francesca but curvier, with honey-blonde hair and soft hazel eyes—wrapped me in a hug before Lu could even finish introducing her.
“I’m Giovanna,” she said, hugging me like we’d known each other for years. Something in my spine eased just a little.
“We were starting to think you didn’t actually exist,” she teased, shooting a look at her brother.
Lu rolled his eyes and stepped back to my side, fingers grazing the small of my back in a touch so familiar it made me want to lean into it. The tension that had knotted itself under my ribs since we walked in loosened considerably.
There was something undeniably human about the two of them—their warmth, their humor, the way they nudged and needled Lu like only siblings could. It was like a pin had popped the formality balloon, and suddenly I wasn’t floating alone in some cold, glittering vacuum.
“We’re so glad you came,” Giovanna said, looping her arm through mine with casual familiarity. “Seriously. Our brother’s been smiling more lately, and it’s honestly suspicious.”
Something about the way she said it—so light, so offhanded—landed somewhere soft in my chest.
I didn’t think Lu had changed. Not really. He still teased me when I overwatered my plants, still rolled his eyes at my awful coffee, still talked too fast when he got excited about some new AI project he was building. He’d always been like that with me.
But maybe that version of him—unguarded, warm, a little chaotic—was starting to seep into the rest of his life. The parts of him his family didn’t usually get to see.
And maybe they were finally noticing.
Maybe this night wouldn't be all barbed looks and quiet judgment. Maybe some corners of his world were warm enough to breathe in.
And somehow, the thought that I might’ve brought that warmth with me—that maybe I was part of what made him lighter—made something flutter low and deep in my stomach.
But then Marina’s voice floated back in, smooth as silk and twice as cutting.
“Shall we move into the dining room? I believe we’re ready to begin.”
Lu’s hand grazed mine—brief, grounding—and I followed the crowd, reminding myself not to let the mask slip.
The mahogany table stretched almost the length of the dining room—long, rectangular, and intimidating. Every place setting gleamed with gold-rimmed plates, polished silver, crystal glasses that chimed if you even thought about touching them.
Lu slowed beside me, scanning the place cards. His jaw tensed the moment he spotted his name—followed by Anastasia Ricci, two seats to the right of his father.
I followed his gaze down the table. My name sat halfway down the table like an afterthought—like punishment. Far enough that even conversation would be out of reach. I was seated beside Giovanna.
Lu turned to his mother with a smile so tight it might as well have been drawn on with wire. “Interesting seating choices, Mother.”
Marina didn’t even blink. “It’s just a table, Luigi.”
“Funny. Looks more like strategy.”
She lifted her glass and smiled towards a group of arriving guests, effectively ending the conversation.
Giovanna showed up beside us, her tone breezy but loaded. “Don’t worry, little brother,” she murmured, linking her arm with mine. “I’ll take care of your girl.”
Lu’s gaze flicked to mine. We didn’t need words. I nodded, subtly, and he sighed, reluctantly peeling away towards his seat beside Anastasia.
I slid into my chair next to Giovanna, trying not to wince at the visual across the table. Anastasia was already leaning in, her hand grazing Lu’s arm under the guise of laughter. She was animated, smiling too hard, her body angled entirely towards him.
Lu didn’t touch her back. Didn’t encourage her. But he didn’t exactly shut it down either.
I hated it.
And it wasn’t just because she’s grating. It was because Anastasia got to sit beside him, acting like she belonged there even though he couldn’t give two shits about her. It was the way she clearly thought she already owned him, no matter what.
I forced myself to look away, grabbing my wine glass instead.
“She’s laying it on thick tonight,” Giovanna said dryly, swirling her wine. “Mother must’ve promised her something.”
I snorted softly. “Like a prize horse?”
“Exactly.” She lifted her glass in mock salute. “Win over the prodigal son, get a villa.”
I glanced towards the head of the table and caught Oscar pressing his lips together. It was barely noticeable, but Giovanna saw too.
“That’s his ‘I don’t approve but I won’t start a war about it’ face,” she said. “Trust me, I know it well.”
“You think that’s about Anastasia?”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. He absolutely wants Luigi to marry Anastasia,” she said with a shrug. “He just thinks Mother’s playing it too aggressively. And the more she pushes…”
“…the more he pulls away,” I finished.
Giovanna gave me a look. “See? You get him.”
I glanced back across the table—Lu was angled slightly away from Anastasia, keeping a polite distance while she spoke animatedly beside him. He wasn’t laughing at anything she was saying.
Then—his eyes found mine. Just a glance. Just a second. But it was enough to stop everything else.
In that moment, we didn’t need words. The noise and glitter of the room fell away, and it was just us again. The way it always was.
He was telling me he hated everything. That he didn’t ask for any of it. That I’m the only one he wanted to be sitting beside.
I gave him a knowing look and smile. It’s okay, I tried to say with just that. We’ve got this.
He blinked slowly, the corner of his mouth tugging up just slightly. Then he looked away, back to the performance he was stuck playing with Anastasia.
“God, you two are disgusting,” Giovanna said beside me, amused. “You just had an entire conversation without saying a single word.”
I blinked, barely holding back a grin.
“We do that a lot,” I said, and the words came out a little too easily—like a truth I didn’t have to think about. Like it had always been that way.
Giovanna tilted her head, studying me with something softer in her expression now. Less teasing, more observant.
“Yeah,” she said after a pause, “I can see why Luigi’s so in love with you.”
I froze. The words hit me harder than I expected.
I didn’t flinch, didn’t react outwardly—but something inside me jolted. A small, sharp twitch that made my breath catch for just a second too long.
My first instinct was to laugh it off. But I couldn’t even do that, could I? I couldn’t say ‘he’s not’, or ‘give that man an Oscar’ because wasn’t this the whole point of our arrangement?
We were supposed to pretend we were in love. That was the deal. That was the line. There were rules and a script and carefully fabricated lies.
I couldn’t deny it. Not without throwing the whole charade into question, not without making it obvious that something wasn’t adding up.
But this didn’t feel like a part of the rehearsed story. It wasn’t a line we’d practiced or a move we’d planned.
This was someone else saying it out loud—so casually, like it was obvious, like it was real.
It shook something loose in my chest that I hadn’t realized was even there. I reached for my wine glass again, needing the distraction. The bitter warmth steadied me more than I wanted to admit.
I’d prepared for the judgment. For the scrutiny. For his mother’s cold glares and Anastasia’s smug little smiles.
But this?
I hadn’t prepared for this.
After a stretch of silence, Giovanna spoke again, her tone light and decisive.
“I’ve decided we’re going to be friends,” Giovanna said, pulling me back with the kind of certainty only middle children and therapists usually have. “Mother sat me all the way down here for a reason, you know.”
I tilted my head. “Oh?”
“Yeah, I’m absolutely her least favorite kid.” She grinned, lifting her glass in a casual toast. “Middle child, family disappointment, emotional liability. I check all the boxes for the title of ‘black sheep.’”
I laughed—quietly, but genuinely. It felt good. Unexpected, but good.
You get why she didn’t seat you with Luigi, right?” Giovanna said, her voice dipping softer now, like she wasn’t just making conversation anymore. “She wants you to feel like a plus-one. Temporary. Decorative.”
She tilted her head, eyes scanning the room.
“And if he hadn’t gotten up this morning and decided to color-coordinate with you—very hot, by the way—you might’ve just faded into the curtains.”
I glanced down at my gown, the deep navy silk catching the light like rippling water.
“I’m… trying to take that as a compliment.”
Giovanna’s smile warmed, softer now, more sincere.
“It is one. You’re making waves, Cate—even when you don’t mean to.”
My gaze drifted back across the table. Anastasia was laughing at something Lu didn’t say, leaning in too close, her smile practiced and bright. Lu, meanwhile, looked like he was mentally calculating how many exits were in the room.
“I hate this,” I murmured, before I could stop myself.
Giovanna followed my gaze, then leaned in, her voice low and steady.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “You’re the one he looks at like he can breathe again.”
My stomach did a small, traitorous flip.
I should’ve laughed. Rolled my eyes. I really just wanted to say something breezy like “He’s just a good actor,” or “We’ve rehearsed this a lot.” But the words caught somewhere in my throat.
Because I couldn’t say any of that. And worse—part of me wasn’t even sure if I’d be lying or telling the truth anymore.
So I said nothing.
I just smiled tightly, like I’d accepted a compliment I wasn’t sure how to take, and reached for my wine again—like maybe the glass could anchor me better than words.
This was supposed to be pretend. A favor. A façade.
But here was Giovanna, someone smart and sharp and way too perceptive, looking at me like this was the most obvious thing in the room.
How the hell is she seeing all of this?
I kept my gaze steady, kept my breathing calm, but beneath the surface, something was shifting. Cracking.
Across the table, Lu glances my way again. Our eyes meet, and I swear for a moment we’re not surrounded by crystal and judgment and strategic seating.
We’re just us.
And suddenly, I can breathe again too.
As dessert plates were cleared and the servers began their subtle ballet of resetting the space, Giovanna leaned toward me again.
“After dinner, a bunch of people from the art scene are showing up,” she said casually. “Some of them are old gallery contacts. I’ll introduce you.”
I blinked, caught off guard. “You… know people from the art world?”
She gave me a flat look that was all mock offense. “Cate. I’m a disaster, not uncultured.”
That pulled a laugh from me—real, sudden, and a little brighter than I expected. “Thank you.”
And I meant it more than I could explain. For the support. For treating me like I belonged. For seeing me.
A soft chime from the far end of the room drew everyone’s attention.
Marina was already rising from her seat—graceful, composed, as if she’d spent the entire evening rehearsing for a portrait no one asked her to pose for. Oscar stood a beat later, pushing his chair back with quiet precision, the kind of quiet that spoke of lifelong conditioning.
And just like that, the spell broke.
Chairs scraped back from the table in a polite chorus, conversations rose in volume like a tide returning, and guests began their elegant migration toward the lounge. Crystal glasses clinked, laughter rebooted, and dessert plates were promptly forgotten.
Across the room, Lu stood—not slowly and politely.
Immediately.
Anastasia was mid-sentence, one hand gesturing delicately in his direction, but he didn’t so much as glance at her. He didn’t wait.
He was already moving.
His eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, the chaos of the room faded into background noise. His steps were steady, unhurried, but unyielding—like he’d been holding back all night and now that the barrier had lifted, he couldn’t get to me fast enough.
I barely registered her disappointment as he made a direct beeline towards me, like gravity has suddenly decided it worked differently just for us.
Giovanna let out a quiet, amused chuckle at my side. “Dramatic,” she murmured into her wine glass. “I approve.”
I stood just as Lu reached me, heart thudding a little too loud for comfort. And when he got to me, he didn’t just stop and speak—he reached for me.
Without a word, Lu pulled me into a hug.
Not showy. Not performative. Just… real.
One arm curved around my waist, the other up between my shoulder blades, anchoring me like I was the only real thing he had left to hold onto. His forehead brushed my temple for just a beat—long enough to breathe me in.
And just like that, the noise of the room faded.
It was solid and grounding, like he needed the contact just as much as I did. Maybe more.
His cheek brushed the side of my head before he drew back just enough to see my face. I didn’t even realize how much I needed it until I felt him wrap around me like that. Not for the crowd. Just for me.
For a second, he didn’t say anything. He just looked at me—searching, checking, like he was making sure I was still here, still me, still okay.
Like the whole night had been leading to this exact moment.
Then, low enough for only me to hear:
“I’m going to kill her.”
I huffed a soft laugh, the tension cracking just a little at the edges. “She’s trying really hard, huh.”
“To get me to elope.” He rolled his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching. “With an audience.”
His fingers brushed against my waist again, warm through the silk. The dress didn’t feel like someone else’s now. His voice dipped.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Giovanna kept me sane.” I glanced to the side and smiled. “She’s surprisingly awesome.”
“She’s the best one,” he said without hesitation, and Giovanna—still pretending not to eavesdrop—flashed us a smug smile over the rim of her glass.
Lu’s knuckles grazed gently along my cheek, and I leaned into it before I could stop myself.
“Thank you for surviving that,” he murmured.
“Thank you for making it obvious who you’d rather be sitting with,” I replied, just as quietly.
His smile came slow and quiet—lopsided and entirely his, the kind that only ever belonged to me.
“Always.”
And just like that, the tension of the evening began to unravel—one look, one touch at a time.
--
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