Forbidden love

The next morning, Aria woke to the sound of birdsong and the creaking of the old house shifting in the wind. For a moment, she forgot where she was. Then her eyes settled on the wallpaper she’d once tried to peel away as a teenager, and reality came flooding back. Silverpine. The lake. The house. And Luca. She pulled on an oversized sweater, her skin still sore from the dust and scrubbing the day before, and padded downstairs. The kettle screamed as she reached for her mug, and her phone buzzed on the counter just as she poured the hot water. A text. Unknown Number: Be there in 10. Bringing coffee. – L She stared at the screen. Luca had her number? She started to reply but stopped. Instead, she sipped her tea and tried to calm the quiet thrill that crept into her chest. Exactly ten minutes later, his truck rumbled into the driveway. He emerged wearing a dark flannel shirt over a gray t-shirt, carrying two coffees and a brown paper bag that smelled like cinnamon and sin. “Donuts,” he said, holding them out. “From Marla’s.” Aria raised an eyebrow. “Trying to bribe me into liking you again?” He smirked. “Would it work?” She took the coffee. “Maybe.” They ate on the porch in comfortable silence. Birds flitted through the pines, and the lake glimmered in the distance, untouched by time. Luca took a sip of his coffee. “Your mom used to sit out here every Sunday morning. Sometimes she’d talk to me. Sometimes she didn’t. Just let me sit with her.” Aria blinked. “You… really knew her.” He nodded, looking down. “She was one of the only people who didn’t treat me like I was already ruined.” Aria wasn’t sure what to say to that. Luca had always been the wild one—arrested at seventeen for fighting, dropped out of high school, rode a motorcycle, disappeared for weeks at a time. Her mother had hated him. Or so she’d thought. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” she asked quietly. Luca looked up at her, eyes serious. “Would it have mattered?” She opened her mouth, then closed it again. He had a point. They stood and walked inside. The hallway was next on the list—full of old books, cracked picture frames, and memories Aria wasn’t sure she wanted to revisit. Luca pulled down a dusty box and opened it, revealing photo albums, yearbooks, and letters bound in twine. He held up a photo of Aria at sixteen—grinning, sunburned, sitting on the hood of her mom’s old car. “You were happy then,” he said softly. Aria took the photo, her smile fading. “I thought I was.” Luca tilted his head. “What happened?” She hesitated. “You happened,” she wanted to say. But it wasn’t fair to blame him for everything. “I left,” she said instead. “I wanted more.” He nodded slowly. “And did you find it?” “Some of it,” she admitted. “But not all.” Luca didn’t ask what was missing. That night, Aria lay awake in her childhood room, staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind move through the trees. She kept thinking about the look in Luca’s eyes—guilt and warmth, memory and maybe something more. She’d left because she was scared. Scared of becoming like her mother, scared of being stuck. Scared of how much she had loved a boy who never promised her anything. But now, older, she wondered if maybe love had never needed a promise. Maybe it had just needed time. Over the next few days, they fell into a rhythm. Luca showed up every morning, always with coffee and something sweet. They cleaned, sorted, tossed, and occasionally argued over what to keep. One afternoon, as they were clearing the attic, Aria tripped on a loose board. She reached out, grabbing Luca’s arm to steady herself, and for a moment they were face to face, breath to breath. His hand lingered on her waist. “Careful,” he murmured. She nodded, heart hammering. Neither of them moved. “I used to dream about you,” he said, voice rough. “In Chicago. Wherever you were.” Aria’s lips parted. “Why didn’t you ever come after me?” He swallowed. “Because I didn’t think I deserved to.” She reached up, her fingers brushing his jaw. “You broke my heart,” she whispered. “I know.” “I hated you.” “I know that too.” Their eyes locked. And then, slowly, inevitably, he kissed her. It wasn’t like their teenage kisses—hurried, secret, desperate. This one was slow, careful, and full of everything they hadn’t said. When they broke apart, breathless, Aria leaned her forehead against his. “What are we doing?” she asked. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I don’t want to stop.” That night, she didn’t sleep. Not because she was scared. But because for the first time in years, she wasn’t sure if leaving again would be the right thing. The sun filtered through the attic windows, lighting motes of dust that danced like memory. Aria sat cross-legged beside an open box of letters, Luca beside her, a half-empty bottle of lemonade between them. The kiss from the day before lingered on her lips like a secret—soft and electric, dangerous in all the ways first love could be. They hadn’t talked about it. Not yet. Instead, they worked. Or pretended to. “You ever think,” she said, picking up an envelope with her mother’s tight handwriting, “that some places hold you hostage?” Luca leaned back on his hands. “All the time.” She looked at him, eyes narrowed. “Then why didn’t you leave?” His mouth twitched. “Who says I didn’t try?” Aria blinked. That was new. “You did?” “Twice. The first time, my truck broke down halfway to Denver. Didn’t have the money to fix it. The second time…” He trailed off, eyes distant. “What happened?” “I got scared,” he admitted, voice low. “Not of leaving. Of what I’d be when I got there.” Aria let that sink in. She had always imagined Luca rooted in Silverpine by pride or defiance. But fear? That made him human. And heartbreakingly real. “You think I left because I was brave,” she said quietly. “But I wasn’t. I was running.” Their eyes met. “Maybe we were both just kids trying to survive,” he said. They cleared through boxes like archaeologists of the soul. Old diaries, fading postcards, forgotten trinkets from birthdays long past. Then Aria found it. A small wooden jewelry box tucked beneath a stack of magazines. Inside, a folded letter addressed to her in her mother’s familiar script. She hesitated. Luca watched her. “Want me to step out?” “No,” she said. “Stay.” She unfolded the paper, heart thudding. My Aria, If you’re reading this, I’m already gone. And I’m sorry for that. I wasn’t always good at saying things when I should have. So here’s what I never said out loud: You were never a disappointment to me. Not for loving him. Not for leaving. You wanted more from the world—and that’s something I both admired and envied. I see so much of myself in you, and it terrified me to think you might feel as stuck as I once did. Luca… he’s not who the town says he is. He’s more. I saw it. I just didn’t know how to trust it. If he’s still there, and if your heart is still even half full of him, I hope you’re brave enough to find out what that means. Love always, Mom. Aria stared at the letter, hands trembling. The paper was old, the ink slightly smudged. She didn’t realize she was crying until Luca reached out, thumb brushing her cheek. “She never told me this,” Aria whispered. “She didn’t tell me anything either,” he said softly. She looked up at him. “She wanted me to forgive you.” Luca shook his head. “I don’t need forgiveness, Aria. Not unless you want to give it.” She folded the letter carefully. “I don’t know what I want.” “That’s okay.” They sat in silence for a while, the attic warm with memory and something new between them. Not teenage yearning. Not anger. Something deeper. Quieter. Understanding. That evening, Aria stood on the edge of the lake. The same dock where she’d once let Luca kiss her under fireworks on the Fourth of July. The same place she’d waited for him the night before she left, and he never showed. She heard his footsteps behind her. “You never came that night,” she said, not turning. “I was there,” he said. “I just couldn’t make myself walk to you.” She turned now, surprised. “I stood behind the trees,” he continued, eyes shadowed. “Watched you waiting. I was drunk. Angry. Scared. Thought maybe I wasn’t good enough for you. Maybe you’d be better off.” “You let me go.” “I didn’t know how to hold on,” he admitted. “I didn’t know how to love you the right way.” Aria stepped closer. The air between them was charged with seven years of unsaid words. “I don’t want you to hold on,” she said. “I want you to try again.” Luca looked at her, eyes searching. “You sure?” “No,” she whispered. “But I’m not running this time.” And he kissed her again—deeper this time. Not hesitant. Not guilty. Hopeful. The next day, Silverpine noticed. Small towns always did. Mrs. Harper gave Aria a knowing look at the grocery store. Two old men at the diner muttered as Luca walked past. Even the pastor’s wife, kind-faced and soft-spoken, asked her, “Are you sure that’s a road worth walking again?” But Aria didn’t care. She wasn’t seventeen anymore. And Luca wasn’t just a boy with anger and a fast car. He was a man with history, pain, kindness in his hands—and a look in his eyes that said maybe. Maybe we could try. But peace never lingers long in places built on whispers. On the fifth night, the knock came at her door. Heavy. Demanding. She opened it to find Elliot Sayer, her mother’s lawyer, standing with a folder in his hand. “Aria,” he said tightly, “we have a problem.” She let him in, suddenly cold. “There’s a lien on the house we didn’t know about. Your mother took out a second mortgage. If you don’t sell by next week, the bank gets everything.” Her stomach dropped. “But I already have a buyer lined up.” “The buyer backed out,” he said. “Something about the neighborhood. Bad reputation.” Her eyes narrowed. “You mean Luca.” Elliot didn’t reply. But she saw it in his face. The town was still trying to make her choose. Again. That night, she sat on the porch with Luca, the stars scattered above them like shattered glass. “You’ll lose it all,” he said. “Because of me.” “It’s not your fault.” He looked away. “It’s always been my fault, Aria.” She reached for his hand. “I’m not leaving,” she said. “Not this time.” He looked at her like he didn’t believe it. Like he wanted to. Like he couldn’t. “You’ll hate me for it one day,” he said. “No,” she whispered. “I hated leaving more.”