#svftlove

lips draw into a small frown at the mans statement, knowing there's some sort of lie behind it. everyone longs for something these days, but aiyla realizes that perhaps its easier to simply ignore. wanting, after all, can be a very dangerous thing. "are you sure?" she murmurs, casting him a lingering glance before padding into the kitchen and beginning to rummage through drawers. "no need. i knew i was coming with you, so why write what i wanted down when i could look for it myself? not that it's anything horribly exciting. an extra set of clothes. a pack of cards or a book. hygiene products." offering a shrug, light hues flicker up to him. "more worried about everyone else than myself, to be honest."

the hotel room was quiet. too quiet. luca sat on the edge of the bed, one hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey, the other dragging through his hair as the city lights bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows. it was late, too late for rational thoughts, too late to pretend he wasn’t exhausted, too late to ignore the way the silence felt heavier without her. the whiskey burned on the way down, but it didn’t do much to cut through the restlessness clawing at his chest. another night in another city, another interview, another crowd screaming his name. it should’ve been enough. it used to be enough. but all he could think about was the last time he saw her. the way she fit against him like she belonged there. the sound of her laugh, soft and tired through the phone. the missed calls he hadn’t been able to return. his phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark. he should let her sleep. he would let her sleep. but his fingers itched, and the longer he stared at the glass in his hand, the more he wanted to hear her voice. finally, he reached for his phone and typed out a message.

tell me something real. anything.

just to prove that their relationship was not just a figment of his imagination. and then he waited.

Cristiano stood outside her door, the cold bite of the late-night air clinging to him despite the warmth of his coat. He could feel the weight of his own stupidity pressing down on his shoulders, but here he was anyway, staring at the door he swore he wouldn’t knock on. His fingers grazed the edge of his phone in his pocket, a tempting escape he couldn’t quite bring himself to take. But even he wasn’t drunk—or foolish—enough to believe that was what he truly wanted.

With a sharp inhale, he raised his hand and knocked, the sound louder in the stillness of the night than he expected. Seconds dragged on, each one amplifying the voice in his head reminding him how bad of an idea this was.

When the door finally cracked open, he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his tousled hair. “I couldn’t sleep," he said, the words tumbling out the second his gaze met hers.

Dark eyes flickered over her face, lingering a moment too long, as if committing it to memory. It felt familiar and foreign all at once, and he hated the way it twisted something deep in his chest. “I figured you’d be up,” he added, his voice quieter now, a faint edge of defensiveness creeping in. “You usually are.”

He shifted his weight, suddenly too aware of how ridiculous he must sound. “Besides,” he continued, the words rushed and uneven, “I think you still have some of my shirts and stuff. Thought I could grab them while I’m here.”