The rain started sometime after midnight.
Naomi stood by the tall window in Luca's loft, watching droplets race down the glass. The city beyond was blurred and glowing, just like everything inside her.
Luca emerged from the kitchen, his shirt undone, low on his hips. Not intentional—just… comfortable. Natural. That made it worse. Or better.
He handed her a fresh glass of water, fingers brushing hers. Neither of them moved away.
"I should go," she whispered. She'd been saying it for an hour. She hadn't moved.
"You don't want to," he said, voice soft.
Naomi looked up. The city lit one side of his face in gold. The other was shadow. Like him. Like her. Light and dark, twisted up together.
"No," she breathed. "I don't."
He stepped closer. Bare inches between them now.
Still, he didn't touch her.
He waited.
Naomi reached out first. Fingers curled into his shirt. Pulled.
And he came.
Their mouths found each other again—but not in a rush this time. It was the kind of kiss that built from the inside out. His hands rose slowly, threading into her curls, and her body softened against him like she'd been waiting years, not weeks.
Every motion was deliberate.
The slide of lips.
The press of chest to chest.
The hitch of breath when his hands cupped her waist and found bare skin beneath her shirt.
He lifted her, carefully. She wrapped her legs around him without thinking. Her heart was hammering, but not from fear.
He laid her down on the wide bed by the window, where the city could still see if it looked closely enough. She shivered, not from cold, but anticipation.
He paused, hovering above her.
"Tell me to stop," he said.
She shook her head. "Don't you dare."
He smiled. Not cocky. Just… relieved. Like he'd been holding back too long.
Clothes came off slowly. Not ripped or rushed. This wasn't about frenzy. This was about discovery.
His mouth on her throat. Her gasp when he traced his lips lower. The way her back arched as his hands skimmed her hips.
He kissed every part of her like she was a secret, and he wanted to learn her fluently.
And when he finally pressed into her, it wasn't just physical.
It was everything.
Their pasts.
Their want.
Their guilt.
Their impossible timing.
And still—she opened for him.
She let him in.
He moved slow. Measured. Like the build-up had been the foreplay, and now they were writing the climax in the language of skin.
Naomi cried out once, raw and real. Not from pain. From finally.
He didn't speak.
Neither did she.
They didn't need to.
Their bodies said it all.
After, they lay tangled in silence. His hand traced the line of her spine. Her fingers rested against his heartbeat.
For a moment, nothing else existed.
The world could collapse. But this—this was untouched.
Unforgiven.
Unforgettable.
And far from over.