Not too close
a luca x f!reader
synopsis: Sheβs never been shy β not with her laughter, not with her words. But when it comes to her skin, she hides behind makeup like armor. One careless comment at a night out leaves her spiraling, but Luca sees through the silence.
rating: 16+
word count: 1.8k
warnings: openly speaking about acne
a/n: hereβs another os for this gorgeous man. i must say that this is a very important piece for me as i struggle with this myself so i hope everyone that lives the same feels recognized and appreciated. everyone is worth of love.
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You werenβt supposed to be here tonight.
It was supposed to be dinner at home, just you and Luca. But at the last second one call and the big invitation for both to stop by to a fancy restaurant to get some drinks and celebrate the birthday of one of his friends.
Youβre not shy.
You never have been.
Thatβs the thing people always misunderstand about you β as if being quiet about your skin meant you were quiet about everything else. But youβre loud, often the first to laugh, the last to leave, the one who dances when no one else will. You just prefer not to be seen too closely. Not under harsh lighting. Not with bare cheeks.
Youβve always had acne. Since you were twelve. Then scars, hyperpigmentation, that one angry bump that always comes back in the same place.
Even now β grown, independent, loved β you still keep a tinted moisturizer by your bed. Just in case.
So now, as you were invited, you donβt hesitate to say yes. Maybe you wouldβve preferred just you and him snuggling in bed after a good homemade dinner but if you were attending, youβll be sure of having fun. When it comes time to get ready, you give yourself nearly two hours. Not because of your outfit. But because of the mirror.
Foundation. Color corrector. Powder. A gentle contour. Blush β just enough to look effortless.
You know how to wear your skin like armor.
And sometimes you wish you didnβt have to put all of that on you to feel better, safer.
You see his tall figure at the door of your room, his navy blue shirt with two open buttons lit up his face, framing his eyes and blonde hair.
βReady, gorgeous?β He always spoke with a compliment.
You just nodded as you walked towards him.
βMay i have a kiss before?β He says softly.
βNow?β
βYes, now.β He leans over.
Your lips met his softly, tender like him.
And after that a soft smile decorated your face.
The restaurant is one of those warm, low-lit places where everyone looks golden. Lucaβs friends are already there when you arrive β a few chefs, two stylists, someone who knows someone from Bon AppΓ©tit. You recognize a few faces. They smile at you like they already know who you are, which both helps and hurts.
As soon as you sit down in the restaurant, under the flickering candlelight and the warm glow of twinkling lights, you feel it: eyes.
Not judgmental. Not exactly. But⦠observant.
The woman across from you β tall, toned, with perfect skin and one of those voices that sounds expensive β leans in.
She compliments your earrings. You thank her and finally relax.
You look at Luca, laughing and smiling without glancing occasionally at you to make sure youβre doing well.
Adele, that was the name of the woman. You got lost between all her comments, her lifestyle, her successful husband and her recent trip to Rome. The comment was unexpected, soft.
βI love how you can pull off a full face without it looking cakey. Iβd break out like crazy. But your skinβs probably used to it, right?β
The other women laughs β not meanly. Just lightly. Like itβs a joke.
Like you are a joke.
Your stomach flips. For a second, you donβt breathe.
βShe didnβt mean it,β someone might say. βIt was just a passing comment.β
But it wasnβt. Not to you.
To you, itβs middle school. Itβs your first dance. Itβs the first time someone said βew.β Itβs your mom telling you βdonβt touch it, itβll get worse.β Itβs the pharmacy aisles, the photos you untagged, the years of hoping no one noticed.
You blink down at your napkin, pretending to check your phone. You force a smile. Lucaβs voice threads through the conversation like silk, but he keeps glancing at you.
He saw it. He felt the shift.
And you?
Youβre trying to cope with it so you excuse yourself to the bathroom after the entrees are served. You say it casually, even make a joke. βToo much wine,β you quip.
But when the door closes behind you, you stare into the mirror and feel everything break.
Your concealer has faded on one cheek, revealing the raised bump beneath. Your nose is shiny. Your chin is textured β scarred, angry. You press a finger against it and instantly regret it.
No, No, Noβ¦
You feel sick. Small. Like a paper cut no one sees.
Your hands start to tremble. You feel the panic blooming beneath your ribs β the kind that tells you to leave before you make a scene. Before someone else notices.
You text Luca:
βHey, I might Uber back early. Donβt want to be the tired girlfriend, but I think the wine hit me wrong.β
You put your phone away. Try to breathe.
Minutes later you hear a knock.
You flinch. But itβs not the knock of a stranger.
βBabe?β
Lucaβs voice. Soft. Gentle. Just outside the door.
You open it a crack. βIβm okay,β you lie.
βDonβt worry, weβre leaving.β He says.
βWhat? No, iβll go.β
βNonsenses, we got here together and we leave together. Come on.β He kindly holds her arm, taking her out of the bathroom.
He speaks to the table and with a few smiles they finally leave.
The drive home is silent.
You enter the apartment and go straight to the balcony. The cold breeze caressing your face, your bumpy face.
You donβt say any thing. You donβt have to. Luca stands next to you, hands in his coat pockets, not pushing.
βWant to talk about it?β he asks gently.
You shake your head. βItβs dumb.β
βItβs not dumb,β he says.
You stare at the reflection in the glass behind him. You can see the way your foundation has started to crack slightly near your nose, the way the scar on your chin is catching the light now that the powderβs worn thin.
You swallow. βShe didnβt mean anything by it. Probably.β
βThat doesnβt mean it didnβt hurt.β
A soft pause.
βI always wear makeup,β you murmur. βEven when I donβt need to.β
You take a breath. βItβs not just the breakouts. Itβs what they mean. Every time I look in the mirror, I see failure. Like I didnβt do enough. Wash enough. Cover it right.β
- βIβve tried everything. Dermatologists, diets, no dairy, every serum. Still, it justβ¦ stays. And no one says it out loud, but I know what people think. That Iβm dirty. That I donβt take care of myself. That Iβm ugly.β
Luca turns toward you, slow. βCan I say something?
βDo you remember when I told you your skin doesnβt scare me? And that thereβs no reason to say that.β
You smile, barely. βI remember you said that while you were making pasta like it was nothing.β
He leans a little closer. βIt is nothing. To me.β
You exhale.
βBut to you,β he continues, βitβs everything. I know. I know how much it costs you to take it off. Even with me.β
Your throat tightens.
He continues, softer now. βYouβre not hiding anything from me. Youβre surviving. You donβt have to, not with me.β
You close your eyes.
βI just wanted tonight to feel normal,β you whisper. βLike I wasnβt carrying this thing around on my face.β
He doesnβt move for a second. Then, he walks forward β slowly, deliberately β and gently places his hands on yours, still pressed against your cheek.
He doesnβt pull them down.
He just waits.
After a long pause, you let him.
And then, Luca does the thing you least expect. The thing that breaks you open in the best possible way.
He leans in⦠and kisses your cheek.
Right where the raised scar is.
Right where the pain sits.
Itβs not pity. Itβs not reassurance.
Itβs love. Quiet, tender love.
Your breath catches. Your memory goes back to eight grade, to that boy who openly said how disgusting your cheeks were.
You look at him.
He squeezed his nose with a tender smile.
βPretty girl.β He whispers.
And you breathe again.
You donβt take off your makeup that night.
Or the next one.
But just when you felt right, you walked to the bathroom. You take your time. Itβs not a dramatic, cinematic thing. Itβs real. You run warm water. Rub the balm into your skin. Watch the layers melt. You pause when you see yourself fully bare β red marks, texture, scars.
You touch your cheek lightly.
Then you walk out.
Lucaβs in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, making tea. He turns, sees you β sees all of you β and doesnβt flinch.
He doesnβt look surprised. Or polite. He just looks like he sees you.
And you feel your shoulders loosen, just a little.
He hands you the mug. βChamomile okay?β
You nod, voice caught.
He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. βYou look beautiful.β
You look away. βDonβt lie.β
βIβm not.β He says it like fact.οΏΌ
You donβt cry that night. You let yourself laugh when he tells a dumb story. You let your face be touched. You let your skin exist.
And when you fall asleep on his chest β bare-faced, scared, brave β he doesnβt say anything. Just brushes his thumb across the spot he kissed and holds you closer.
Like youβre soft.
Like youβre safe.
Like youβve never been anything less than beautiful.
