The city sprawls beneath us like scattered diamonds on black velvet. Not some cheesy movie backdrop—this is real. Raw. The kind of view that makes you forget there’s a world beyond the cliff’s edge.
I’m perched on Luca’s hood, knees drawn up, hoodie sleeves pulled over my hands like armor. He’s beside me, unusually quiet, staring at the lights like they hold answers to questions he hasn’t figured out how to ask yet.
“So,” I say, breaking the silence that’s been stretching between us. “Is this where you bring all your victims?”
His mouth quirks up. “Only the special ones.”
“Great. I feel so honored.”
“You should.” But his voice lacks its usual cockiness. There’s something underneath—something softer, more uncertain.
I nudge his shoulder. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps staring at the skyline like it might start talking back.
“Everyone thinks I’m a joke,” he says finally.
The words hang in the air like smoke. I turn to look at him, but he’s still facing forward.
“What are you talking about?”
“Come on, Noah. You know what I’m talking about.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Class clown. Party boy. The guy who flirts with everyone and takes nothing seriously.”
“That’s not—”
“It is, though.” His voice is quiet, matter-of-fact. “And most of the time, I don’t care. It’s easier to be what everyone expects.”
I study his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his shoulders curve inward like he’s trying to make himself smaller.
“But?” I prompt.
“But with you…” He finally looks at me. “You don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m entertainment. Like I’m just some pretty face with no substance.”
My chest does this weird squeezing thing. “Because you’re not.”
“You see me.” His voice drops to barely above a whisper. “Actually see me. Not the act. Not the reputation. Just… me.”
I don’t know what to say to that. The honesty in his voice makes my throat tight.
“You make me want to be real,” he continues. “And that’s fucking terrifying.”
“Why terrifying?”
He slides off the hood, moves to stand in front of me. Close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his dark eyes.
“Because what if the real me isn’t enough?”
The vulnerability in his voice nearly undoes me. “Luca—”
“What if you realize I’m just as lost as everyone else? What if I disappoint you?”
“You won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I already know who you are.” I reach out, fingers barely grazing his hand. “You think I haven’t been paying attention for three years?”
He stares at me like I just said something profound instead of obvious.
“You help your little sister with her science projects even when you’re failing your own classes,” I continue. “You give up your lunch money to kids who forget theirs. You remember everyone’s birthday. You—”
“Stop.”
“You asked. I’m answering.”
He steps closer, close enough that his legs brush my knees. “You really see all that?”
“I see you, Luca. The real you. And I’m not going anywhere.”
Something shifts in his expression. Relief, maybe. Or hope.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” he says.
“Then don’t.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?”
Instead of answering, he leans in. Slow. Deliberate. Giving me every opportunity to pull away.
I don’t.
This kiss is different from all the others. Not desperate or rushed or stolen. This one unfolds like a promise, soft and sure and full of possibility.
I reach up, fingers tangling in his hoodie, pulling him closer. He makes this sound in his throat that goes straight to my core, and suddenly the kiss deepens.
His hands find my waist, steadying us both. I can taste mint on his tongue, feel the warmth of his skin through his clothes. Everything else—the city, the cold, my fears—fades to background noise.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, eyes still closed.
“I don’t want to rush you,” he whispers. “I’m not expecting anything.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. “What are you expecting?”
“Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.” He opens his eyes, meets my gaze. “I just want you to be sure.”
“Sure of what?”
“That this is what you want. That I’m what you want.”
The question hangs between us like a dare. And suddenly I’m drowning in all the ways I could answer—all the ways I could fuck this up or make it perfect or ruin everything we’ve built.
“I…” I start, then stop. Because what do I say? That I’ve wanted him since freshman year? That I’m terrified of wanting him this much? That I don’t know how to be brave enough for whatever this is becoming?
He watches me struggle, patient and understanding and completely devastating.
“You don’t have to decide right now,” he says softly. “I’ll wait.”
Those three words hit harder than they should. Not because I doubt him, but because I don’t trust myself. Don’t trust that I won’t find a way to sabotage this before it has a chance to become something real.
“What if I’m not ready?” I whisper.
“Then we go slow.”
“What if I panic and run again?”
“Then I’ll come find you.”
“What if—”
He silences me with another kiss, gentle and reassuring.
“What if we stop overthinking and just see what happens?” he murmurs against my lips.
I want to say yes. God, I want to say yes so badly it physically hurts. But there’s this voice in my head—my voice—that keeps whispering all the ways this could go wrong.
I don’t know if I can silence it. Don’t know if I’m brave enough to take the leap.
Everyone else seems to dive headfirst into whatever comes their way. But maybe I want to wait. Find someone who doesn’t make me feel like I’m constantly performing.
But looking at Luca—really looking at him—I think I might want to try.