(Aria)
I didn’t move after he left.
The door closed softly, but the sound echoed anyway, settling into the room like something unfinished. The chair where Luca had sat still held the shape of him—heat, tension, restraint. I could almost trace it with my eyes.
Almost.
My fingers curled into the fabric of my sleeves, grounding myself. Breathing helped. Counting helped.
What didn’t help was the memory of how close his mouth had been.
Not the hunger—though that had been there—but the control. The way he’d stopped himself not because he didn’t want to, but because he wanted to do it right.
That scared me more than if he’d kissed me.
I cleaned the bowl slowly, deliberately, rinsing away blood that wasn’t his. The water ran clear, but my thoughts didn’t. They kept circling back to the sam
