Luca found it hard to sleep last night with all the thoughts running through his head. By the time he clambers out of bed at five in the morning, the bags under his eyes are so severe, he has to do a triple take just to convince himself that what he’s seeing is his actual face.

He blames them on Junho. 

If he hadn’t come over, then Luca wouldn’t have had to step foot in his sister’s room. He wouldn’t have had to see all of the things she’d left behind, or be faced with the unmistakable truth, something that has been slowly settling in since the day of her death:

He doesn’t know his sister very well, and that is... a painful realization.

If he’d only been more observant, more interested, he’d have been able to see Junho in the pictures up on the board above her desk. He could have asked about him, heard about him from her, if he’d only paid attention. They’re right there, hung up for anyone walking in to see, and he never noticed.

They looked so happy in each shot. Ciana’s eyes are shining with a vibrancy that Luca hasn’t seen much in her when they were together. It’s like she isn’t sick at all in those photos, just a regular girl with a best friend who is clearly dedicated to her. Who she clearly loves.

“Does it frustrate you thinking I knew her better?”

That question keeps echoing in his head, an invasive thought that spins his mind in circles. But he knows his answer. Does it frustrate him? That’s putting what he feels lightly.

He resents himself for it. His shoulders are heavy with guilt, and the regret, the shame, the worry, and the weight of every feeling increases each time he walks past her door. And still, still, he can’t cry.

What kind of a brother can’t even cry for his own sister? His twin sister.

Sometimes, when it gets to be too much, he feels numb instead. Disconnected. Nowhere. Un-buoyed.

He wakes up feeling that way.

It’s enough that he can get himself out of bed, trudge over to the bathroom, reach for his toothbrush and begin his day. It’s at this time that he usually gets ready for school, but today isn’t a school day.

So Luca starts off his day by listening to a podcast as he goes about disinfecting his room and the rest of the house, and contemplates which history book on his shelf he’ll get lost in after cleaning.

Eventually, Luca finds himself reading about Roman mythology, but his eyes keep leaping off the pages and mostly, he ends up staring at the sunlight filtering though the curtains in his room, waiting for the minutes to tick by.

Around eight o’clock, he dog ears the page he hadn't been reading and begins to get ready for church. Nothing special, just slacks and a button-up shirt as well as throwing on the only sneakers he has that aren’t scuffed up and in need of tossing out.

Getting Rico ready is the challenging part:

“Svegliati!” Luca calls, knocking on his brother’s door and opening it a second later. And there he is, still asleep despite it nearly being nine. Luca rolls his eyes and mutters, “Dorme troppo,” before stepping in to jostle his brother awake.

Rico groans, batting at him with a hand. “Lemme ‘lone.”

“It’s time to get dressed for church.”

“Don’ wan’ go.”

Exasperated and hating the thought of being late, Luca wastes no time in throwing off his brother’s blanket and scooping him out of bed. Rico begins to whine instantly, his eyes flashing open. He opens his mouth.

“Luca!”

Luca turns towards the door and calls, “Yes, Babbo?”

Seconds later, a panicked Pino comes into view, disheveled and still in yesterday’s clothing, half of his beard shaved while the rest is covered in shaving cream. Upon seeing his sons, that panic works itself into a fierce yell, “We’ll be late!”

As it happens, they aren’t.

. . .

At noon, an hour after they’d returned home from St. Mary’s, Luca begins to receive texts from his clients about his dog-walking services, some to schedule, others expecting him to show up soon. So with that, Luca gets ready to go out on the town, changing into gym shorts and a simple shirt, his leather satchel strung up on his arm, carrying dog treats, extra leashes, doggie bags and hand wipes. He never bothers with the car—Luca likes running or walking when he can help it.

It helps clear his head, usually.

Usually being the keyword.

Luca can’t get Junho off his mind. All day, he kept coming back to him. Especially so in church, where he couldn’t help but think of ‘the moment’ that had passed between them the day before.

The way Junho had looked at him had been interesting, to say the least. A bit embarrassing, more confusing, to think about is Luca's reaction to him.

He’s pretty sure they’d been flirting, in a weird sort of bickering way. In a way that he recalls had been easy, interesting. Surprisingly so, and yet not surprising at all. Somehow talking to him didn't seem to be much of a challenge when the ice had already been broken by the throat-grabbing.

An image of Junho's face as he leaned in keeps flashing through his mind, the very one that had held him spellbound in the moment when he was experiencing it. Clear skin, shapely thick brows, dark eyes framed by thick-lashes, a long, rounded nose, full, parted lips, and a jawline Luca's fingers itched to run over. In most every way, their faces and personalities are direct opposites and yet—

Junho said he has a difficult time talking to people.

Luca still doesn’t know if he can believe a flashy guy like him, able to smile and charm the room in an instant, can possibly struggle that way. Yet Luca felt his speeding pulse as proof, had been so distracted by it that it wasn't until much later that he thought about the sweat on his palms that normally would have freaked him out. 

Touching Junho hadn’t been hard, or at least not hard in the same way he was used to dealing with when touching strangers.

Luca can’t remember the last time he’d been face to face with someone like that, especially not someone so good looking.

“Lui è un uomo incantevole,” he mutters to himself, catching his breath as he shakes his head from those ridiculous thoughts, stepping up to the door of his first regular, Aatifa Grayson.

She’s an older woman with white hair puffed up like a q-tip and unfortunately can’t get around too well on her wheelchair. Two years ago, she belatedly realized that the excitable puppy she’d picked up from a shelter is bred to be a runner, and it’s when she visited the shelter Luca volunteered at for advice, that everything between them first began.

In the process of helping her walk her dog, it was a newspaper article and Aatifa's raving reviews of his performance that got Luca the clients he currently works with.

If he’s being completely honest with himself, it’s that, and her sweet disposition, that makes her the closest thing he has to a friend. However, to escape that sad truth, he typically just thinks of her as some sort of aunt he does chores for. 

It’s a lot less embarrassing thinking that, than believing the only person who can handle his sharp tone and intimidating looks is a sixty-four year old widowed baker whose kids never think to visit ever since they’ve gone off to college and began their lives as adults.

As ever, Aatifa opens the door and greets him with a broad smile on her dark, wizened face. Behind her, locked in the dining room by a baby gate, Chewie yips in excitement.

“How've you been, sugar?" she asks, face creasing with sympathy when she sees his face. When he says nothing, just purses his lips, she gives the side of his hip a hard pat and moves on, unperturbed, "I’ll let the both of you have your walk, but come back and afterwards we’ll have some tea—”

“Can’t, it’s Sunday, remember?” Luca says, stepping into the house as she moves to let him in. “I’m the only one who cooks, so I have to get started around four if I want everything ready when my dad wants it to be.”

Aatifa hums, not hiding her disappointment as she asks, “What will you be making?”

Luca scratches his chin, feeling a bit shy about his answer. But he'a already avoided one answer and ignoring Aatifa always gives him a sick feeling in his stomach. With a sigh, he admits the truth, “Coda alla vaccinara—it’s an oxtail stew, my nonna’s favorite meal. She’s here visiting so I want to show her that I can make it after she taught me how when I visited Italy last year.”

Her warm brown eyes widen, her grin widening. “Oh, what a nice boy! Bring me a plate if you’re ever able, I’d love to try it one day, Luca.”

“Will do,” Luca says, stepping farther in to greet Chewie, who barks and flops his ears around in a way that is entirely too goofy not to laugh at. “Have you been a good boy, Chewie?”

Aatifa seems not to think so. “He might give you trouble today—he’s been hyper all day despite walking yesterday.”

“I’ll run him a little bit harder today then,” Luca decides, reaching into his satchel for a dog leash, clipping it onto his collar and then undoing the latch on the babygate. If this was a year ago, Chewie might have jumped him to the ground in his excitement, licking his entire face, hands, and arms.

Except it’s now, and Luca has spent a good deal of time training Chewie to make things easier on Aatifa and himself. Chewie behaves today, sitting back on his haunches as he waits eagerly for Luca’s hand sign to tell him to go, even whining and trembling as he is from his eagerness.

Aatifa wheels herself entirely out of the doorway, watching Luca and her Vizsla dog make their way to the entrance. “Have fun now!” she calls, to which he responds with a two-fingered wave.

“I’ll bring him back tuckered out for you," he calls back before taking off to pick up the other dogs he'll be walking.

In the process of tuckering out Chewie and a band of several other dogs—Sunday is one of his busier days as a dog-walker, especially so if he decides to volunteer at the shelters he frequents—he tuckers himself out and after making a trip to the supermarket for ingredients he hasn't already bought earlier within the week, comes home feeling ready to pass out and take a nap.

Sofia looks up from the couch at his entrance, her expression dismayed from the set of her chin and lowered brows. "Sei finalmente a casa.”

Luca frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“No one is home, I don’t know what to do with myself,” she complains. “I’ve just watched movies all day, all alone.”

“Not all day—it’s only been three hours, Nonna,” he says before heading towards the kitchen to set his bags down. Sofia follows after him with light footsteps in her white pantofole. “What happened to Rico? Shouldn’t he be home still?”

“He went out after you left,” she explains, looking through the bags as Luca lays them on the counter. “We cooking together today?”

“You can watch,” Luca offers her. “I want to do this on my own.”

She raises her hands up in exasperation. “Can’t I do anything to help?”

Luca presses his lips together into a thin line. As a general rule, he doesn’t like letting other people into his spaces, and the kitchen? It’s his favorite place. The place he typically feels the happiest, the most at ease. He doesn’t like people messing with his set up or getting into things. He has a hard enough time with Rico—and he's seen the way his nonna keeps her kitchen.

She may be his nonna, but he doesn’t trust her not to misplace everything she takes out to use.

Plus, he wants to show her what he can do on his own.

“No," he says gently, "just watch, Nonna. I’m making il tuo cibo preferito.”

At that, her eyes lit up, her grin slow but forthcoming. “My recipe?”

“I’ve made it a couple more since you taught me,” he says, reaching into his cupboards to pull out a big enough pot for the oxtail stew.

“Then I’ll watch,” she murmurs gleefully, leaving the kitchen to pull in a chair from the dining room.

While she’s gone, Luca closes his tired eyes briefly, sighing as he heads towards the sink to wash his hands. Somehow, looking at them under the spray of water, he recalls again how his fingers felt on Junho’s warm skin.

Not much really changed between them, that’s obvious, and Luca definitely still thinks of him as an annoyance, but...

It’d been sort of nice.

Sort of.