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nova

“ W hat about kids of your own ?”

The question hits harder than I expect—sudden, direct, like a pebble chucked into still water.

My fork pauses halfway to my mouth.

I blink. Slowly lower the fork back to my plate. My chest does this weird stuttery thing, like my heart missed a step on the stairs.

I glance up, and Luca’s already got that look—regret, maybe, or embarrassment. His eyes flicker like he wants to take it back. I don’t want him to.

We should have real talks, yeah?

“I do.” I swallow, voice smaller than I expect. “Of course I’ve thought about it to the point where if it doesn’t happen with a partner I could still do it. I’ve imagined raising a baby on my own.”

His brows lift slightly. “Really?”

I nod. “I know it sounds insane, but I love the idea of having someone small to love. Someone to raise into a good human. I think I’d be a good mom.”

Luca shifts a little, his hand brushing against mine on the counter. “I don’t think that sounds crazy at all. ”

My eyes lift to his.

“I think it sounds brave,” he says. “And kind of badass.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “You’d say that even if I told you I wanted to raise a child in a yurt in Montana.”

“Would you let me help build the yurt?” he asks, deadly serious.

I snort. “As if I would live in one.”

Be serious.

We fall into silence again, but it’s a good silence—the kind that doesn’t feel like pressure or the need to fill space with noise. The kind of silence that lets you breathe a little deeper, like your body finally got the memo that you’re safe.

“I meant what I said. About wanting to be a mom. I think I’d be really protective. Maybe even kind of intense.”

“I can see that,” he says, propping his chin on his hand. “You’d be the mom who knows everyone in the school drop-off line by name. The one who sends themed snacks and has backup socks in her purse.”

I grin. “I’d have an emergency granola bar for every occasion.”

“And a playlist for car rides.”

“Obviously. And boundaries.”

“Now that’s parenting,” Luca says with a proud nod. “Therapists everywhere would applaud.”

“Thanks,” I say, smiling softly.

“You ever think about it?” I ask, because I want to know. Because we’re already halfway down this rabbit hole, and I don’t want to dig alone.

He shrugs. “Sometimes. Usually in passing. Like when I see a dad walking around with a baby strapped to his chest. I think that’s pretty cool.”

Pretty cool?

Oy.

“If you need a sperm donor who also knows how to assemble IKEA furniture, I’m your guy. ”

“Oh my God.”

I shift uncomfortably, glancing away.

Too late. He caught me staring at his?—

“Stop pretending you don’t like it,” Luca says; he knows exactly what he’s doing.

I force a breath out through my nose and stand, grabbing his now-empty plate to distract myself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously useful,” he calls after me. “Do you even know how many people can’t assemble a crib properly?”

I shoot him a look over my shoulder. “Are you applying for the position of father, boyfriend, or general handyman?”

“Whichever comes with the best perks.”

He stands, following me to the sink.

I hate the way my body buzzes at the sound of his footsteps behind me. Hate it—and crave it all at once.

I busy myself with rinsing dishes while he dries them beside me, the two of us moving in sync like we’ve done this a hundred times.

It’s domestic.

Familiar. Intimate.

And entirely too dangerous .

His shoulder brushes mine as he reaches for the next plate. It’s not an accident. I know it. He knows I know it.

Neither of us says anything.

“So, to clarify,” he says, his tone playful; laced with something heavier. “You’ve considered raising a baby on your own, but you’re scandalized that I offered to help build you a yurt baby nursery?”

“Because.” I stifle a giggle. “You say things like that and then look at me like?—”

“Like what?”

I hesitate.

“Like my vagina is open for baby business.”

I feel ridiculous saying the words and they make us both laugh .

“Speaking of your vagina…”

Oh lord.

I pause mid-rinse, turning toward him with a damp dish in my hand and my eyebrows somewhere near my hairline. “Luca.”

He grins. Slow.

Wicked.

He smirks, not moving an inch away. “I didn’t properly acquaint myself with Mavis—barely an introduction.”

I hadn’t even had an orgasm before I demanded he kiss me.

“And then your brother showed up,” he adds as if reading my mind, as serious as a priest recounting a failed exorcism.

“Tragic,” I whisper.

“Haunting,” he agrees.

We stand there facing one another—me clutching the dish towel like it’s the only thing keeping me from reaching for him, and Luca looking down at me like he’s plotting a séance.

The exorcism Poppy says I so desperately need.

“I think,” he muses. “Mavis should have the closure she deserves.”

A nervous laugh bursts out of my throat. “Are you suggesting you seduce the ghost of my unresolved sexual tension?”

He steps closer, leaning in just enough to make my breath catch.

“Only if she’s ready.”

My pussy tingles.

Oh, she’s ready all right…

But I don’t say it.

I can’t say it.

Because the second I open my mouth, I’m going to end up either begging or combusting, and both feel equally appalling things to say out loud. His hand lifts, slow and careful, brushing the damp dish towel out of my grip, dropping it on the counter.

The moment his fingers graze mine, it’s over .

I surge forward at the exact same second he pulls me in, and our mouths crash together like we’ve both finally stopped pretending we weren’t waiting for this.

This kiss is not polite. Not tentative. It’s the kind of kiss that burns.

His hand finds the curve of my jaw, tilting me just enough for his mouth to slide deeper against mine. I moan before I can stop it, gripping the front of his shirt like it’s the only thing tethering me to the kitchen floor.

He walks me back until my spine hits the counter. It’s not rough, not rushed—it’s intentional . He’s here. He wants me. He wants to kiss me until I forget my own name and maybe even his.

His tongue slides against mine, and holy hell, if Mavis was still haunting me, she’s fully crossed into the light now.

My hands slip under the hem of his shirt, searching, needing skin. I find it—warm and solid and smooth. He groans into my mouth like I’ve shocked him with the touch, like it wasn’t expected, but welcomed.

And then his mouth moves.

From my lips to my jaw, down to the slope of my neck, where he lingers. His teeth scrape, his lips soothe, and I swear to God I could black out from the way he breathes my name.

“Nova…”

Yes.

Yes…

Luca groans deeper this time, almost like I’ve broken something loose inside him. His hand slides under my thigh, then the other follows, and before I can fully process what’s happening?—

I’m lifted.

Effortlessly.

He hoists me like I weigh nothing and sets me on the edge of the counter with a soft thud. The cool surface sends a momentary jolt of shock through me, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his hands settling on my knees, spreading them just enough so he can step between them.

We’re eye level now.

Breath mingling. Lips inches apart .

“Hi,” I whisper, dazed.

His mouth quirks. “Hi.”

And then we’re kissing again—hungry, greedy, both reaching the breaking point and too far gone to care.

His hands grip my thighs, my waist, my hips, grounding me and setting me on fire all at once. My hands roam too, up his chest, around his neck, into his hair.

His body presses closer, and I swear I feel every unspoken word he’s ever wanted to say pour into that kiss.

When his lips move to my neck again, his hands slide under the hem of my shirt. Not pushing. Not rushing. Holy hell, I want more.

I want all of it.

The tension between us hums like electricity in a thunderstorm. It’s not just lust—it’s something heavier. Something like need, wrapped in vulnerability and layered with the kind of affection I didn’t expect to find here. In my kitchen.

On my counter.

With him.

I lean back slightly, bracing my hands behind me on the counter for balance. He takes the hint, trailing kisses down my collarbone and over the neckline of my shirt. His palms flatten against my bare thighs and slide upward, slow and reverent.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs against my skin.

“You’re overdressed,” I breathe back.

He lets out a low and wicked chuckle and kisses me again. “So are you.”

His hands find the hem of my shirt, thumbs brushing bare skin as he waits—always giving me space, always letting me choose. I nod, slow and sure .

He lifts the fabric over my head, careful, like he’s unwrapping something sacred.

The moment the shirt is gone, his eyes roam. They’re open, honest, reverent. Like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen and he’s not trying to hide it.

“You’re…” Luca exhales pressing his forehead briefly to mine before kissing me again. Slower this time.

Sweeter.

My turn .

My fingers find the hem of his shirt next. I pull, and he lets me, breaking the kiss only long enough for it to pass over his head. I toss it somewhere behind us, not caring where it lands.

I take in his tattoos—he has three. One on his chest, two on his upper bicep.

A scar on his rib cage.

Freckles.

And then it’s skin to skin.

Heat to heat.

My legs tighten around his hips, pulling him closer, anchoring us in this moment.

He kisses my shoulder. My neck. The space just beneath my ear that makes my breath hitch. His hands cradle my waist like he’s memorizing every inch, like this— this —is what he’s been waiting for.

“So fucking sexy…”

“You are too.”

He licks between the valley of my breasts, hands sliding around to the small of my back. My breath catches again when his fingers find the clasp of my bra, working with the kind of practiced ease that makes my brain short-circuit.

Then the fabric loosens, slides down my arms, and is gone—tossed aside like the rest of our hesitation.

His gaze flicks up, eyes dark, lips parted. And when he finally speaks, his voice is barely a whisper.

“Jesus, Nova…” he breaths. “Your tits are amazing. ”

I would blush, but I already know my tits are amazing.

Luca doesn’t rush. He just looks at me . Then his mouth is on my skin again, lips and tongue and hands worshiping every inch like I’m a map he’s determined to memorize.

My nipples pucker.

I curl my fingers into his hair as he kisses his way down—slow, teasing, maddening. When I gasp, I feel him smile against my skin, pleased with himself.

“You keep doing that and I won’t be responsible for what Mavis does.”

That earns a laugh. A low, rumbling one that vibrates against my chest and makes my toes curl and my vagina clench .

“Mavis,” he says, tracing a line along my rib cage with his mouth, “is getting all the closure she deserves tonight.”

I let out a shaky breath, legs tightening around his waist. “She’s waited long enough.”

His hands glide down to my hips, fingers hooking into the waistband of my leggings. He pauses there, glancing up at me, making sure I’m still in this—still saying yes.

I nod. No hesitation this time.

He peels them down slowly, like every inch of skin he reveals is something sacred. Like he’s unwrapping a gift he plans to take his time with. Once my jeans are gone, he stands back so he can look at me.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he whispers.

My chest swells.

My mouth goes tight.

I reach for him next, fingers finding the button of his jeans. I work it open, drag the zipper down, and he helps me, shimmying them off with a laugh as they get tangled around one ankle.

He kicks them away without looking, eyes still locked on mine.

Now we’re down to nothing but the bare essentials—and even those feel like too much space between us .

He steps back in, his hands sliding over my thighs again as he leans in to kiss me. It’s slower this time. Full of promise. Full of patience.

“You sure?” he murmurs against my lips.

I nod.

Absolutely.

Yes.

Fuck me…