THE WAY HE WATCHES

The rain didn’t stop that night.

It came down in steady sheets, soft and constant, like the sky itself had decided to grieve. The windows of the De Luca estate blurred with it, casting everything inside in a watery glow.

Aria sat by the fireplace in the study, curled in one of the armchairs she wasn’t sure she was allowed to use. Her knees were pulled to her chest, a blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders, as if the soft wool could shield her from the weight she carried.

She hadn’t seen Luciano since the night in the hall—the night he told her things no one should’ve admitted. The way he held her. The way he said mine like a threat dressed in velvet.

And still… she hadn’t slept.

Not properly.

Every time she closed her eyes, it was there again. His breath at her ear. His touch on her wrist. The look in his eyes when he said, If you ever try to leave again…

She didn’t know what scared her more—his threat or the part of her that wanted to believe he wouldn’t follow through.

A part of her that wasn’t afraid of him anymore.

Just afraid of herself.

⸻

The door creaked open, and her heart jumped before she even looked.

Luciano.

Of course.

He always came when she least expected it—when her walls were thin and her emotions raw.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just walked in with that quiet confidence, his presence filling the room like gravity. No suit tonight—just dark slacks and a sweater that clung to his frame like it had been tailored just for him.

Aria didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

He walked past her, toward the liquor cabinet. Poured himself a drink.

Only after the first sip did he finally speak.

“You always sit here when it rains.”

She blinked, startled. “You’ve been watching me?”

He turned slightly. Just enough for her to see his expression. Calm. Knowing. Almost… amused.

“I watch everything.”

Her throat tightened. “That’s not comforting.”

“It’s not meant to be.”

He moved toward the second armchair, sat across from her like they were equals, like this wasn’t some elaborate game of predator and prey.

“You haven’t written anything in days,” he said, voice low.

“How would you know that?”

He shrugged. “Your laptop hasn’t left the nightstand.”

“So you really do spy on me.”

“I make sure you’re safe.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

He tilted his head, watching her the way someone might watch a painting they couldn’t decide if they liked or hated.

“No,” he agreed. “It’s not.”

⸻

Silence stretched between them.

Outside, thunder murmured in the distance.

Inside, only the crackle of the fire kept them from feeling completely alone.

Then Luciano spoke again.

“Why did you stop writing?”

Aria hesitated.

It was the kind of question she wasn’t used to from him—gentle in its own rough way. Curious. Real.

She swallowed. “Because I don’t know what’s true anymore.”

His brows furrowed. “Explain.”

She looked into the fire. “I came here thinking I could survive you. That if I kept my head down, stayed quiet, I’d find a way out. But I started writing again. I started feeling again. And now I don’t know if I want to leave because of what you’ve done… or because of how you’ve made me feel.”

Luciano was quiet for a long time.

Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“You think I don’t feel it too?”

She looked up, startled.

“You think I don’t wake up every morning wondering what the hell I’m doing keeping you here—wanting you close enough to touch but not trusting myself to?”

His voice cracked, just slightly. It was the first time she’d seen him… not fragile, but frayed. As if something inside him had finally begun to split.

“I’m not a good man, Aria.”

She stood, blanket slipping from her shoulders. “I never said you were.”

He rose too, slowly. His eyes locked on hers.

“But you’re not a coward either,” she whispered.

That did something to him. His jaw tensed, and for a second, the man in front of her wasn’t a monster or a captor. He was just a man—a damaged, furious man who had forgotten what it meant to be seen without armor.

“I don’t know how to love someone the right way,” he said.

Aria stepped closer.

“Then we’ll learn,” she said quietly.

He didn’t kiss her.

Not yet.

But something shifted.

And that shift felt dangerous.

Beautiful.

Inevitable.

⸻

Later that night, Aria stood by the window of her room, watching the rain blur the garden below. The path she once tried to escape through was now just a memory—damp stone and locked gates.

She didn’t know if she’d ever leave.

Didn’t know if she even wanted to anymore.

But as she pressed her fingertips to the glass, she thought about what Luciano said.

I don’t know how to love someone the right way.

And what she said back.

Then we’ll learn.

It wasn’t a promise.

But it was a beginning.

And beginnings were all she had left.