Page 146 of Shadow Waltz

I couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up—so much for ordinary. “You planning to take me hostage again?”

He grinned, sharp and boyish all at once. “Only for a couple hours.”

We took the service elevator down, Luka’s hand steady at my back, every inch the overprotective boyfriend. I didn’t mind it—maybe I even liked it, the way he fussed, the way he hovered, as if he’d spent so long losing people that he’d forgotten how to keep someone close.

Outside, the air was crisp, the sky a pale blue bruised by early autumn. Luka helped me onto the bike, checking the straps on my helmet twice, then climbed on ahead, glancing back with a rare, nervous smile.

“Ready?”

I nodded, arms wrapping around his waist. The engine roared to life, and for a moment, we were just two men chasing freedom through city streets.

He drove carefully, not the reckless Luka of old. At stoplights, he’d glance back, thumb brushing my knuckles, as if reassuring himself I was still there. We slipped through neighborhoods I’d only seen in passing—quiet parks, little bakeries, tree-lined streets where no one knew our names. The city felt different, somehow smaller and brighter when I wasn’t running from it.

After twenty minutes, Luka pulled off into a quiet street and parked behind a bakery with faded awnings and chalkboard menus. He helped me off the bike, hand never leaving mine. “Best pastries in the city,” he said, trying for casual, but his voice trembled at the edges.

Inside, the air was thick with sugar and coffee and the low hum of old jazz. We picked a corner table by the window, half-hidden by trailing plants. Luka ordered for us—apple pastries,two coffees, nothing extravagant. I watched him, struck by how out of place he looked here, yet how right it felt.

He fidgeted with his cup, stealing glances at me. “You’re staring,” he murmured.

“I’m trying to figure out who you are,” I said. “I thought I knew, but…”

“But?”

I shrugged, unable to hide the awe. “I never expected you to be… cute.”

His ears turned pink. “Don’t tell Troy.”

I laughed, light and real, the ache in my chest fading for a moment. We sat in comfortable silence, sipping coffee, trading jokes and stories—real ones, not the kind that end in blood. He told me about a failed birthday cake from his childhood, how he once broke his arm falling out of a tree, how he still checked the locks three times before bed, out of habit.

“You’re not who I thought you were,” I said softly.

He met my eyes, serious now. “Neither are you.”

The pastry was flaky and perfect, cinnamon and apple melting on my tongue. I let myself enjoy it, let myself be seen. Luka watched every expression on my face like it was a secret he’d spent years trying to unlock.

“Why now?” I asked. “Why the date? Why this?”

He set his cup down, fingers trembling. “Because when you were shot, I realized I’d spent so long trying to keep you alive that I forgot to let you live. I want to do better. I want to be better. For you.”

Emotion clogged my throat. “You already are.”

He reached across the table, covering my hand with his. His thumb traced circles on my skin. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be soft.”

I squeezed his hand, voice rough. “You’re already doing it. Just by being here. By trying.”

A tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it. Luka’s eyes widened, but he didn’t pull away. He reached up, thumb brushing the tear aside. “You can cry, Ash. You can laugh. You can do anything you want. I’ll be here.”

It hit me then—what it meant to be chosen, not for utility or leverage, but just for being me. It felt like breaking and healing at once.

We spent hours there, sunlight shifting across the table, pastries disappearing, coffee cooling. For the first time, Luka talked about the future—not as an abstraction, not as something to fear, but as something we could shape together.

“We could go anywhere,” he said. “Start over. Build a life where no one knows us.”

I shook my head, smiling. “We start here. With this. With one good day.”

On the way home, we walked. No bike, no hurry, just two men weaving through city streets, hands linked, hearts still bruised but beating strong. We passed a florist, and Luka ducked inside, emerging with a single white lily.

“For you,” he said, bashful.