3rd person POV
Returning to campus after Christmas at the De Luca estate felt like stepping out of a dream and straight into cold, fluorescent-lit reality.
No golden fireplaces.
No homemade tiramisu.
No Luciano's mother yelling across the estate to bring her future daughter-in-law some extra blankets.
Just creaky stairs, too-small heaters, and a pile of overdue reading assignments waiting for Emery in her inbox.
But when she looked across the room and saw him—tossing his bag on the floor, already shirtless, humming something in Italian—she smiled.
Because her new reality wasn't so bad.
He was here.
And so was she.
Together.
By the second morning back, everyone had noticed a change.
Luciano didn't just walk Emery to class anymore—he walked her to the door, waited for her to turn around, and kissed her forehead before leaving. People stared. Emery blushed. He smirked like the devil and said, "Let them."
By lunchtime, rumors were flying.
"Isn't he like... mafia or something?"
"She's way too soft for him."
"Have you seen how he looks at her? It's like she cured his childhood trauma."
Luciano heard the whispers. And didn't care. If anything, he made it worse.
He touched her constantly. A guiding hand on her lower back. Twirling her hair around his fingers while she tried to read. Kissing the tip of her nose in the library like they were in some indie film no one else had been cast in.
It drove Emery crazy. But not in a bad way.
"Luc," she whined one evening, trying to write her essay while he lay on her lap, stroking her thighs. "I have three citations left and you're literally making it impossible to think."
He tilted his head up, smirking. "Am I not your best source of inspiration?"
She rolled her eyes, cheeks pink. "You're my favorite distraction."
He grinned, sat up, and kissed her like she was the most important sentence he'd ever read.
The storm came on a Tuesday.
Not a real one—though the sky did turn grey—but an emotional one. A tension that crept in like fog.
It started when Emery noticed Luciano checking his phone more. Frowning. Typing quickly. Locking the screen without answering questions.
And then came Lorenzo.
Luciano's best friend. Mafia-adjacent. Always lurking in black boots and sarcasm.
He showed up at their door without warning.
Emery opened it.
Lorenzo stared.
"Wow. You're real."
"Uh... yes?"
He looked over his shoulder. "She's real. And adorable. You're in so much trouble."
Luciano appeared behind her, jaw tight. "Upstairs. Now."
"Nice to see you too, boss."
Emery stood in the hallway for a moment before moving toward the door. Luciano turned sharply.
"Em, no."
"I just want to—"
"Stay here."
She blinked.
"Please," he added, voice softer.
She did.
But when he came back down twenty minutes later, he looked like he'd walked through a thunderstorm.
She reached for his hand. "What's wrong?"
He pulled her to him instantly, arms tight, lips at her temple.
"Someone crossed a line."
"Because of me?"
He hesitated.
"I can leave—"
"Don't," he growled, holding her tighter. "Don't ever say that again."
She nodded into his chest. "Okay."
That night, he held her tighter than usual.
And Emery fell asleep with his hand tangled in her hair, his chest rising and falling beneath her cheek, and her heart caught somewhere between fear and love.
The next few days were strange.
Luciano was still himself—still teasing, still affectionate—but something lingered in the background. A sharpness. A tension.
He walked her everywhere now. Never let her go anywhere alone.
When a guy in their seminar brushed against Emery's shoulder, Luciano went still beside her. Not loud. Not obvious. But Emery felt it.
After class, the guy stammered an apology. Luciano didn't say anything. Just smiled. Cold and polite.
Later, she pulled him aside behind the library.
"Luciano..."
"What?"
"You can't intimidate people just for existing near me."
"I'm not intimidating," he shrugged, lifting her chin. "I'm watching. That's different."
"You're watching violently."
He laughed.
But then cupped her face, pressing his forehead to hers.
"You don't understand what it's like," he whispered. "To feel like something precious is walking around with a target on her back."
"I'm not fragile."
"I never said you were," he said, voice rough. "I'm the fragile one. If anything happened to you, Emery... I'd break."
She kissed him.
Because there were no better words than that.
That Friday, they threw a movie night in their dorm room.
Emery curled up in her favorite hoodie and socks, nestled between Luciano's legs as he wrapped his arms around her waist from behind.
She flipped through films. He buried his face into her neck, mumbling complaints about her terrible taste.
"Luc, you can't say Pride & Prejudice is a crime against cinema."
"It is when the plot is unresolved tension and women sighing in corsets."
"Sounds like you're jealous of Mr. Darcy."
"Mr. Darcy doesn't exist."
"He exists in my heart."
Luciano tackled her.
They wrestled playfully for the remote, until Emery fell back, laughing breathlessly, her hair sprawled across the pillow. Luciano hovered over her, hands on either side of her head, eyes dark and focused.
He leaned down slowly.
"Do you want to know a secret?" he whispered.
She nodded, breath caught.
"I used to dream about you. Before I knew you. I didn't know your name. But you always looked like this."
She stared up at him, speechless.
He kissed her, soft and slow, until she forgot what movie they were even arguing about.
They didn't finish the film.
They didn't need to.
At 3 a.m., Emery woke up to Luciano pacing the room.
He was shirtless, muscles tense, phone in hand. His jaw was clenched so hard, it looked like it might shatter.
"Luc?" she whispered.
He turned, eyes wide, then softened instantly. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."
She sat up, blanket around her shoulders. "Come here."
He did.
Without a word, he crawled into bed, pulling her into his lap, forehead against her shoulder.
She ran her fingers through his hair.
"Talk to me," she whispered.
"They're asking questions. About us. About you."
"Who?"
"Old rivals. People who think I've gone soft."
Her heart thudded.
"I haven't," he said. "I've just... changed."
He pulled back to look at her, thumb tracing the shape of her bottom lip.
"You made me want things I never thought I could have. A future. Something soft. Something good."
"You deserve good things, Luciano."
"You are my good thing."
She didn't cry.
But she held him like she might lose him anyway.
And he let her.
Because in the darkest hours of the night, when the weight of the world pressed down on him—Emery was the only thing that ever held him together.