~CAKE~
Luca sits on the stool in front of me like he always used to—calm, methodical, annoyingly focused.
“Hand,” he says.
I give it to him.
He unwraps the tape slowly, inspecting my knuckles like they personally offended him.
“You’re dropping your left again.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I won.”
“You won sloppy.”
I roll my eyes.
He presses antiseptic into the split skin and I hiss. “Careful.”
“Hold still.”
“I am holding still.”
“You’re flinching.”
“You’re digging like you’re mining gold.”
“That’s because you fight like you’re allergic to defense.”
I snort.
God, I missed this.
No fear. No politics. No Belva.
Just corrections about my fighting.
He retapes my hands tighter this time, fingers brushing efficient and familiar. Then he crouches to check my ribs.
“You’re favoring
