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luca

S o. This is how I die.

Not in a blaze of glory.

Not in some noble act of sacrifice.

Not while heroically saving a cat from a burning building or wrestling a shark off the coast of Maui. Not even by drowning in a tragic but oddly cinematic way.

Nope.

I’m going to die of boredom.

Alone in a bedroom that smells like vanilla candles and lemon chicken.

With absolutely nothing to do except stare at a collection of half-burnt Bath & Body Works and wonder if this is what rock bottom feels like.

Nova’s been gone for what feels like hours. Real talk: it’s probably been about fifteen minutes, but I’ve already walked a lap around her room. Counted the ceiling dots. Tried—and failed—to meditate. Even contemplated reading her old planner for fun.

I sigh so dramatically the ghost of Shakespeare probably claps somewhere.

Death by boredom. That’s my legacy now .

This is my lore.

Her bedroom is cute. Organized chaos. There are candles on every surface, a stack of unread books by her bed, and a stack of clothes piled on a desk chair. One of her drawers is slightly open and I’m tempted to look inside but don’t want to invade her privacy.

I lie back on her bed with a heavy sigh and stare up at the ceiling.

There is literally nothing to do.

No TV. No phone—I left mine out on the kitchen counter.

I sit up again, restless. Her bed creaks beneath me.

Too loud. I freeze. Wait. Listen.

No footsteps.

Okay. Crisis averted.

I wander over to her desk and peek at the notes scattered across it. Lots of scribbles, random song lyrics, a doodle of a slice of pizza wearing sunglasses. Of course Nova draws cool pizza…

I glance at the drawer again.

Just a peek.

Just to pass the time, I tell myself.

I slide off the bed, walk over slowly like I’m disarming a bomb, and tug it open?—

Oh.

Fuck.

Staring up at me is an impressive collection of vibrators. Not one. Not two. Three . And a bottle of lube.

I blink. Once.

Twice.

Well then! Now we’re ready to party!

My brain momentarily short-circuits.

On one hand: private. Personal. Possibly crossing a line.

On the other hand: I didn’t expect the drawer to be hosting a silicone party.

Bright colors. Multiple sizes.

One of them has sparkles. Sparkles .

Newsflash: curiosity always wins.

Reaching in, I carefully lift the purple one like I’m handling a lightsaber made of sin. It’s heavier than expected.

Smooth.

Intimidating in a how does this even work kind of way.

I press the button.

Nothing happens.

I press it again, harder this time, like it's a stubborn elevator. Still nothing.

I shake it. Because why not? That’s what people do with remotes and vending machines, right?

Then, with the grace of a caveman discovering fire, I slide my thumb over a smaller button near the base?—

Bzzzzz.

Bzzz.

It vibrates to life like it’s been waiting its whole life for this moment.

I jump. Actually jump. Nearly drop it.

“Okay,” I whisper, awestruck. “Wow. This is intense.”

Fucking gnarly!

I've never held a dildo before. Definitely not in my current situation—fully clothed, alone in a girl’s bedroom, trying not to panic that I’ll be trapped here the remainder of the evening alone.

I stare at the vibrating purple beast in my palm.

It stares back with its one eye.

This is power. This is technology.

“I am the man,” I declare to no one. “I have conquered the serpent.”

ROAR!

Now I have questions.

So. Many. Questions.

How many speeds does that thing have?

Is there an instruction manual on how to use these on her?

Would she let me?

Can I kiss her again without thinking about that drawer?

It takes me a few more painfully awkward minutes to figure out how to shut the thing off. I cycle through about seventeen vibration patterns first—each one more alarming than the last—until finally, blessed silence.

Setting it back inside the drawer, I close it softly as if I hadn’t just invaded her privacy.

I need a distraction.

My eyes dart to the stack of books on the table, top one has an illustrated cover of a cute couple, the man holding a dog leash. They both look wind-blown and happy, the dude with a jaunty grin.

Bingo.

I grab it, flop onto her bed like I own the place, and flip it open to a random page.

Page 247.

“His fingers slid beneath the waistband of her panties, slow and teasing, like he had all the time in the world. She gasped, arching against him, and he grinned against her throat. ‘You’re so wet for me already,’ his voice was deep enough to undress her.”

I blink.

“What the fuck?” The cover has a cartoon on it! I flip back to it and stare. “Huh.”

I clear my throat and flip the page, purely for scientific purposes.

“She tangled her hands in his hair, pulling him closer, begging without words. He didn’t need instructions—he knew her body like he’d mapped it out himself, and he was going to worship every inch with his swollen cock.”

I glance at the door guiltily .

Still no Nova.

Still just me. And this book. And a growing realization that I am way out of my depth here.

“She reads this stuff,” I whisper to no one. “On purpose. ”

I flip to yet another page.

“He dipped lower, his mouth hot on her skin, his tongue tracing a path that made her whimper. ‘Tell me what you want,’ he said, and she did. God, she did.”

I shut the book. Quickly.

Chuckle under my breath and place the book on top of the small stack, careful not to disturb the others.

I lie back on her bed, arms behind my head, trying very hard not to think about what I just read.

Which is impossible, of course. Because now all I can picture is Nova pressed against me, book and vibrator and who knows what else hidden inside this room.

This is getting dangerous.

I’ve officially crossed into enemy territory.

A bored, unsupervised man in a beautiful girl's bedroom, armed only with poor impulse control and way too much time on his hands? This is how people end up on TikTok with videos that begin with, “ So I was hiding in her room …”

“All right. No more lying around.”

If I’m stuck here, I might as well do something with myself.

I root around and find a whiteboard leaning against the wall, behind a small desk, markers attached.

I pick it up, grab the blue marker, and write in block letters:

NOVA’S BEDROOM SURVIVAL GUIDE: By Luca, prisoner of boredom

Do NOT open mysterious drawers. You will learn things. Things you can’t unlearn. You will regret it.

Avoid page 247 of romance novel.

Vibrators are stronger than they look. I fear them. Respect the buzz.

If you hear Gio approaching, roll under the bed and pray.

I add a little stick figure of myself at the bottom before leaning it against her bathroom mirror for her to find later.

Snatch up the sticky notes on her bedside table and write “SO HOT.” Stick it to the lamp.

“TRAPPED.” Stick that to the headboard. I leave a third on her pillow: “THIS BETTER BE WORTH IT.”

I take a step back, surveying my art. My legacy. My descent into cabin-fever madness made tangible through neon paper. I flop onto her bed again, a bit lighter now. That weird kind of calm that comes after doing something impulsive and stupid but feels extremely satisfying.

The kind of calm you got when you were a teenager and would prank phone call people.

I glance up at the ceiling fan, still spinning lazily. Breathe in the faint scent of lavender, cotton, and sin.

It’s oddly peaceful now. Cozy, even.

I grin to myself.

This evening has been totally worth it.

And just as I start to doze off for real—mind blissfully quiet for the first time since I read page 247—I hear the click of the front door.

Footsteps. Soft. Familiar.

Then a pause.

Then the very distinctive sound of her laughter from the hallway. Low. Distant.

Uh-oh.

The bedroom door swings open and Nova appears, blinking once. Twice.

Her gaze sweeps the room slowly—whiteboard. Sticky notes.

I sit up slowly. Smile like I’m innocent. Like I wasn’t just leaving breadcrumbs of unhinged thoughts all over her room .

“Hi,” I say, voice calm. “Welcome back. Nice of you to show up.”

She looks at me for one long, stunned beat—like she’s trying to decide whether to laugh, cry, or back out slowly and pretend this never happened.

Then she breezes across the room and flops down beside me, burying her face in the comforter with a muffled groan. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

I blink, not expecting the immediate guilt. “For what?”

She rolls onto her back, eyes wide, one hand gesturing vaguely toward the ceiling. “For leaving you alone. For letting Gio linger. For trapping you in here without food, water, or even Netflix access. I am a terrible hostess.”

“You are,” I agree. “Truly abysmal. I nearly died of boredom.”

She groans again. “I knew he was going to overstay. He brought spring rolls, Luca. I couldn’t just throw him out.”

“Yeah.” I nod in agreement. “That probably wouldn’t have gone over well and would have looked suspicious.” My stomach growls. “Did you remember to take the chicken out of the oven?”

“Oh my God, yes—let’s get you fed.” She stands again, pulling me up.

We head down the hall and into the kitchen, the air still smelling faintly of takeout and lemon. I spot the tray of oven-roasted chicken on the stovetop, now resting on a hot pad.

“Okay,” she says, opening the oven door and grabbing a mitt, “I may not be the best hostess, but I didn’t burn the lemon chicken. So that’s at least one point in my favor.”

The warm, citrusy scent floods the kitchen as she takes the top off the pan and presents it to me. It smells good— better than good —and after everything, I’m almost emotional about it.

She piles some chicken and rice onto a plate and grabs a fork, then makes her way over to me. Instead of handing the plate over like a normal person, she leans across the island and spears a piece of chicken herself .

“Open,” she says, eyes glinting.

I blink. “Seriously?”

She holds the fork steady, expression unflinching. “You’ve earned it.”

So I do. I lean in, open my mouth, and let her feed me a bite of what is—no joke—possibly the best lemon chicken I’ve ever had. Maybe because it’s delicious. Maybe because she made it. Maybe because her grin when I chew is so damn proud.

I nod slowly, mouth full. “Wow. Yum. You’re forgiven.”

“Don’t say it if you don’t mean it,” she says, mock-offended as she loads another bite even though I know she already ate with Gio.

“I mean it,” I promise, pointing to the plate. “This chicken is doing most of the heavy lifting—I’ll give you some credit too.”

She laughs and slides the plate in front of me.

I dive in properly, forking a generous bite of rice while she hops up onto the counter next to me, swinging her legs gently as she watches me consume the food.

I eat in comfortable silence for a minute or two. She sneaks a bite off my plate like it’s hers. I let her. I would’ve offered, but she doesn’t ask.

When I glance up, she’s studying me in that way she sometimes does—like she’s working on a puzzle and I’m the last corner piece.

“What?” I ask, mouth half-full.

She shrugs, setting her fork down and wiping her hands on a napkin. “You’re good with women.”

I choke a little. “I—excuse me?”

She grins, cheeky and unbothered. “You are. Like, you’re attentive. Not a mansplainer. You listen and you’re not pushy. I’m a little confused. ”

I blink. “Okay… thanks? I think?”

She nudges her shoulder against mine, voice a little more curious now. “So tell me—what’s your secret? Sisters? Strong maternal influence? ”

I laugh and drop my fork onto the plate. “Sisters. Two of them.”

She snaps her fingers. “Knew it.”

“Older and younger,” I add. “I’m the middle child, which means I was born destined to be ignored and forced into conflict resolution.”

“Ah, so you were trained in emotional mediation from birth. Makes sense.” She tips her head thoughtfully. “Do they know you’re this smooth?”

I smirk. “They know I think I’m smooth. They also know I once literally pissed my pants when we were watching Pet Cemetery in the basement and our cat jumped onto the couch.” I chew for a few seconds. Swallow. “Also. They used to force me into their princess dresses. And my older sister, Madison, was into fashion design and she’d make me try on all the shit she made.”

She would make me model for her, pinning, hemming, and adjusting seams like I was her personal Barbie doll.

“I hate glitter.”

“That explains why you’re so comfortable around women,” she says. “You had sisters.”

“Exactly.” I lift my fork and point it at her like it’s the most profound thing I’ve ever said. “The trauma made me immune to the drama.”

Nova laughs, soft and genuine. “Immune? You sure about that?

“Um—do I have to remind you that I just spent an hour in your bedroom, with no contact with the outside world, and didn’t have a meltdown?”

She watches me eat for a second, quiet and thoughtful.

It’s a different kind of silence now—one that buzzes under the surface. Something’s shifting between us.

“So…” she says slowly, spinning her water bottle on the counter. “You and your sisters still close?”

“Yeah,” I say, wiping my mouth. “Madison lives in Chicago now—runs her own little boutique, does custom work for weddings and local designers. She’s thriving. Still terrifies the shit out of me, though.”

Nova smiles. “And the younger one?”

“She’s in her first year of college,” I say. “Calls me when she needs money, a pep talk, or advice on relationships. Not to brag but I was the first person she called crying when her girlfriend dumped her.”

She reaches across the counter and touches my hand. “Awww, big brothers.”

“I know. I’m awesome.”

Perched on the stool, she continues watching me with a curious, tilted head. “It’s cool, you know. Seeing a guy talk about his sisters like that. With actual affection. Most guys I meet are like, ‘She’s annoying’ or ‘She’s a brat.’”

“Is that what it’s like with you and Gio?”

Her head shakes with a laugh. “No. I feel like it’s different because we’re twins.”

“You guys bicker like it’s your love language.”

“That’s because it is.” She leans back a little, balancing her weight on one elbow. “Growing up, we were inseparable—same teachers, same birthday parties, same overly color-coordinated outfits. He used to tell people we were telepathic.”

“Are you?” I ask, teasing.

She squints at me and taps her temple. “You were just thinking about kissing me.”

I chuckle. “That’s not telepathy—that’s good instincts.”

She rolls her eyes, smile lingering.

“He’s your person,” I say quietly. “Even when you want to strangle him.”

Nova nods, the shift in her energy is immediate. “Yeah. He really is.” She looks down at her hands for a second, then back up at me. “After he moved out of the building, I had… kind of an emotional meltdown?”

I don’t speak—I listen .

Something about the way she says it feels like she hasn’t told many people this.

“I have female friends,” she continues. “Poppy is the best, and I love my girls—but when Gio left, it felt like a part of me got ripped open. We’d always just… been around each other. Same walls, same routines. Fighting over laundry and splitting takeout and dropping in unannounced like he did tonight. And then he was gone.”

She shrugs the kind of shrug that doesn’t erase the weight underneath. “It’s probably not good to spend that much time with a person. Not healthy, right? Codependency or whatever.”

“I don’t know,” I say carefully. “I think it’s okay to miss someone who knows you down to your atoms.”

Her eyes flick up to meet mine, vulnerable and steady.

“It wasn’t just about missing him,” she admits. “It was about what he represented. Safety. Familiarity. A buffer between me and everything else.”

I nod slowly. “And when he left, the buffer went with him.”

She lets out a shaky breath. “Yes. I’m so grateful to have Austin in my life, too. I love her so much and she’s grown to become my sister.” Nova fiddles with a napkin. “Did you know I basically set them up?”

No, I did not know. “You’re the matchmaker?”

She grins, eyes lighting. “Indeed. There’s this bar at the end of the block called Five Alarm, and I went in to grab takeout—naturally—and Austin was sitting at the bar, screaming at the TV about Gio and how shitty he was playing.”

I blink. “ Screaming at him?”

That sounds like a bit much.

“At the screen, yes,” she says, laughing. “Full-on ranting. Dropping f-bombs like it was her job. She didn’t know I was his sister, obviously. I just stood there holding my veggie burger while she destroyed his whole soul in front of everyone.”

I’m laughing now too, imagining it. “And you introduced them after that? ”

“Oh, absolutely.” She sets the napkin down, leaning in like it’s a confidential mission debrief. “Once I realized she was funny as hell and not, like, an actual stalker, I mentioned her to him and?—”

“Let me guess—he took is as a challenge?”

“Exactly.” She grins. “Next thing I know, he’s ‘accidentally’ grabbing takeout from the same place three nights in a row. Then she finally called him out on it and they started talking. Fast-forward a year, and now I’m officially Auntie Nova.”

“You’re gonna be the cool aunt.”

“I am the cool aunt,” she corrects. “I’ve already bought three tiny onesies, one of which says ‘My Auntie is Cooler Than Your Mom.’”

I smile at her, something warm blooming in my chest as I watch the pride in her eyes. She’s radiant when she talks about them—like she’s carved out a space in this world where she belongs, where she’s needed, where she gets to be something more than the girl who hides her feelings behind sarcasm.

“What about kids of your own?” I blurt out.