Chapter 4: Sleepwalking Back to You
Luca didn’t sleep so much as he endured the night in a state of shallow, vigilant rest. The penthouse was too quiet, the city’s hum too distant. Every creak of the settling building, every sigh of the climate system, was a potential threat assessed and logged. He’d left his bedroom door ajar, a habit he’d never broken, a line of sight to the hallway and the guest room beyond.
The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers, painting the room in pulses of faint orange. It was during one of these low pulses, in the dead hour just before dawn, that a shadow detached itself from the deeper darkness of the hall.
Luca’s eyes opened. His hand was already under his pillow, fingers curling around the cool grip of a Beretta. He didn’t move, his breathing slow and silent. The shadow resolved into a figure. Rafael. He moved with a strange, fluid emptiness, bare feet silent on the polished floor. He wasn’t looking at Luca. His eyes were open but unseeing, glossed with the flat sheen of deep sleep.
Sleepwalking.
Luca’s grip on the gun relaxed, but his entire body went rigid with a different kind of tension. He watched, paralyzed, as Rafael navigated the familiar space as if five years were nothing. He bypassed the large armchair, skirted the edge of the bed, and without a hint of hesitation, lifted the black silk duvet and slid in beside him.
The mattress dipped. A wave of warmth, clean and carrying the faint scent of the guest room soap, washed over Luca. Rafael curled onto his side, his back pressing lightly against Luca’s arm. He let out a soft, settled sigh, his breathing deepening almost instantly into true sleep.
Luca stopped breathing altogether.
The heat of another body in his bed was a foreign country, a forgotten dialect. His muscles were locked, a statue in silk sheets. Every instinct screamed to get up, to put distance between himself and this profound vulnerability. But a deeper, more ancient wire had been tripped. The sheer normality of it, the unconscious repetition of a thousand other nights, held him captive.
His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. He stared at the ceiling, the exposed beams blurring in the dim light. He could feel the rhythm of Rafael’s breath against his bicep, a steady counterpoint to his own chaos. The knife under the door, the defiant questions, the shared pasta—those were actions he could process, maneuvers on a field he understood. This was an ambush from within.
Slowly, achingly, he turned his head on the pillow. In the gathering grey light, he could see the sweep of Rafael’s eyelashes against his cheek, the soft part of his lips. The fierce, elegant beauty of him was a physical ache. This was the ghost that had haunted him, now solid and warm and utterly, terrifyingly trusting.
His arm was going numb. He should move it.
Instead, he exhaled, a long, shuddering release of the breath he’d been holding. The tension in his shoulders began a slow, reluctant retreat. Carefully, incrementally, he shifted. Not away, but toward. He settled onto his side, mirroring Rafael’s posture. He lifted his heavy arm and let it rest, not around him, but over him, his hand coming to rest on the mattress beside Rafael’s chest. A bridge. A containment.
Rafael murmured something unintelligible and shifted backward, closing the last inch of space until his spine was flush against Luca’s torso. Luca stiffened again, then melted. He let his forehead rest against the back of Rafael’s head, inhaling the smell of his hair. His eyes burned. He closed them.
When he opened them again, the room was washed in pale gold. Dawn. The fire was dead ash. The arm he had draped over Rafael was now properly around him, his hand splayed possessively over Rafael’s sternum, feeling the steady, sleeping beat of his heart. He hadn’t moved all night.
Awareness returned to Rafael in a gentle, slow tide. Warmth. Solid weight. A sense of profound safety so complete it felt like a memory in itself. He stirred, nuzzling into the pillow. Then his body recognized what his mind did not. The scent—clean linen, expensive cologne, something uniquely male and sharp—wasn’t from a dream. The hard wall of muscle at his back, the arm anchored across him… this was specific.
His eyes flew open. He saw the unfamiliar room, the austere art, the dead fireplace. He went perfectly still.
Luca felt the change. The heartbeat under his palm quickened. The relaxed muscles tensed. He didn’t move his arm. He didn’t speak.
“Luca?” Rafael’s voice was a sleep-roughened whisper.
“Yeah.”
“Why am I… how did I get here?”
“You walked.”
Rafael processed this. He didn’t pull away. He lay there, trapped in the circle of Luca’s arm, staring at the grey embers. “I don’t sleepwalk.”
“You used to. When you were stressed.” Luca’s voice was morning-raw, deeper than usual. “Your mind would run too hot. Your body would just… check out. Find the nearest quiet place.”
“This was the quiet place.”
“Yeah.”
The silence stretched, filled with the sound of their breathing, now synchronizing. Rafael’s hand came up, his fingers hovering over Luca’s where they rested on his chest. He didn’t touch. “And you just… let me stay?”
Luca’s answer was a long time coming. “I didn’t let you do anything. You were asleep.” A pause. “I didn’t want to wake you.”
It was the closest thing to an admission either of them had ever heard. Rafael finally let his fingers brush against Luca’s knuckles. A spark, simple and direct. Luca’s hand twitched, then turned, his palm opening. Rafael’s fingers slid against his, a tentative fit.
“Did I do this before?” Rafael asked, his thumb tracing the line of a scar on Luca’s forefinger.
“Every time.”
The simplicity of it shattered something. Rafael’s vision blurred. He blinked rapidly, focusing on the scar, a thin white line against tanned skin. A story he couldn’t read. “I don’t remember.”
“I know.”
“But my body does.”
“Yeah.”
Rafael turned then, slowly, within the cage of Luca’s arm. He rolled onto his other side to face him. The movement brought them close, noses almost touching. Luca’s gaze was unguarded, exhausted, dark eyes holding a universe of quiet turmoil. Rafael searched that face, the strong jaw shadowed with stubble, the intensity that had once terrified him now seeming like a fortress he’d somehow, inexplicably, been given the key to.
“What happened to your finger?”
“You were trying to learn how to sharpen one of your antique pens. You were distracted. I reached for your wrist. You turned too fast.” Luca’s lips quirked, almost a smile. “You cried more than I did. Said you’d ruined the hands of a master craftsman.”
A flash. Not a full memory, but a sensory burst: the smell of metal and oil, a sharp sting of guilt, the absurdity of tears over a tiny cut on Luca’s tough skin. A laugh that was also a sob caught in Rafael’s throat. “That sounds… embarrassingly like me.”
The almost-smile faded from Luca’s face, replaced by something painfully open. “It was you.”
The space between them was charged, a hair’s breadth from combustion. Rafael could feel the heat radiating from Luca’s body. His own heart was hammering again, but not from fear. He wanted to close the distance. He wanted to know if the shape of Luca’s mouth would feel like a memory, too.
Luca saw the intention in his eyes. He watched it form, a beautiful, dangerous flower blooming in the dawn light.
He watched it form, a beautiful, dangerous flower blooming in the dawn light. The air between them vanished, replaced by a magnetic pull that tightened Luca’s stomach. Rafael’s gaze dropped to his mouth.
Luca moved first, but not where Rafael anticipated.
He leaned in and pressed his lips, dry and firm, to the center of Rafael’s forehead. The kiss was a seal, a benediction, a deliberate deflection. He held it for a three-count of heartbeats, feeling the warmth of Rafael’s skin, the slight hitch in his breath.
Then he pulled back, the moment carefully dismantled. “You’re staring,” Luca murmured, his voice a gravelly rumble.
“You kissed me.”
“On the forehead. It’s not a treaty signing.” Luca shifted onto his back, breaking the full contact, though his shoulder still pressed against Rafael’s. He stared at the ceiling. “You used to get migraines. That sometimes helped.”
“Did it?”
“No. But you said it did.” A faint, real smile touched Luca’s mouth now. “You were a terrible liar about your own pain.”
Rafael touched the spot where Luca’s lips had been. The skin there felt alive, separately tingling from the rest of him. It was a chaste gesture that somehow felt more intimate than anything else that could have happened. It held history without demand.
His stomach chose that moment to growl, a loud, prosaic sound in the quiet room.
The tension shattered. Luca let out a single, sharp breath that was almost a laugh. “The body remembers hunger, too, apparently.”
“The pasta was hours ago.” Rafael shrugged, embarrassment coloring his cheeks. “You try undergoing an existential crisis on an empty stomach.”
“Existential crisis.” Luca repeated the phrase like it was a foreign object, rolling it around. He sat up, the black silk sheets pooling at his waist. The morning light carved the definition of his torso, the old scars and the newer tension. “Right. Well. The crisis can wait.”
He swung his legs out of bed and stood, stretching. His spine gave a soft pop. He looked down at Rafael, who was still nestled in the warmth they’d made. “Get up. I’m taking you to get breakfast.”
Rafael blinked. “Out? I thought I was a prisoner in a gilded cage.”
“You’re a liability on a conditional surrender. The terms include pancakes.” Luca walked to his closet, his movements loose with a decision made. “There’s a place two blocks over. It’s quiet. I know the owner. We’ll sit in the back.”
“Is this part of my education? Pancake logistics?”
“It’s part of my sanity.” Luca pulled a simple black henley over his head. “Watching you poke at reheated pasta almost broke me. Some things a man shouldn’t have to witness. Now move. I want bacon before the morning rush.”
The diner was called Milo’s, a narrow wedge of stainless steel and cracked red vinyl squeezed between a dry cleaner and a shuttered bookstore. The morning air was sharp with the smell of exhaust and greasy goodness. Luca’s hand wasn't on Rafael's arm, but it hovered near the small of his back, a subtle pressure guiding him through the door ahead of a deliveryman hauling a crate of eggs.
"Booth in the back is open, Luca," a woman’s voice called from behind the counter without looking up from the grill. Her name was Dot, and her forearms were mapped with old burn scars.
They slid into the booth, Luca positioning himself facing the door. The vinyl seat was cool. Rafael watched the rhythm of the place: the short-order cook slinging hash, the waitress with a pencil in her grey bun refilling coffees with a surgeon’s precision. It was normal. It felt like a museum diorama of a life he’d never lived.
“You come here a lot?” Rafael asked, tracing a initials carved into the table.
“Often enough.” Luca’s eyes scanned the room, then the street outside the window, a continuous, silent loop. “The eggs are real. The coffee doesn’t taste like poison. It’s quiet at this hour.”
A different waitress, younger, brought them two thick ceramic mugs and filled them. Luca nodded his thanks. She glanced at Rafael, curiosity flickering in her eyes before she wiped it clean and walked away.
“She knows who you are,” Rafael stated quietly.
“She knows I tip well and don’t cause trouble.” Luca took a sip of coffee, black. “That’s all that matters here.”
The menu was a laminated sheet stained with syrup. Rafael stared at it, the words blurring. Pancakes. Waffles. Omelets. A simple decision felt mountainous. His knee bounced under the table.
“Just order the damn bacon and eggs, Rafael,” Luca said, his voice low. “You’re thinking about it like it’s a final exam. It’s breakfast.”
“What if I don’t like eggs?” The protest was weak, born from a sudden, disorienting panic. What foods did he like? Did he prefer sweet or savory? The blankness yawned open inside him, trivial and profound.
Luca looked at him over the rim of his mug. His gaze softened a fraction. “You like them over medium. You steal the crispy bits of bacon from the other plate. You drown your hash browns in hot sauce and then complain it’s too spicy. You drink orange juice, not coffee, in the morning.” He set his mug down. “Order the number two.”
Rafael’s bouncing knee stilled. The instructions were a life raft. “Number two,” he repeated to the waitress when she returned.
“Same for you, Luca?”
“Yeah. Double the bacon.”
When she left, Rafael wrapped his hands around the warm mug. “You remember my breakfast order.”
“I remember a lot of things.”
“Why?” The question hung between them, stripped bare.
Luca watched a city bus groan to a stop outside. “Because for five years, those were the only things I had left.” He said it plainly, no self-pity, just a statement of fact. “The way you took your coffee. The stupid pen you loved. The brand of socks you bought because the seam didn’t bother your toe. They were evidence. Proof you weren’t something I’d dreamed up.”
The food arrived, steaming plates sliding onto the Formica. Rafael looked at his eggs, perfectly over medium, the yolks a liquid sun. He picked up a strip of bacon. It shattered crisply between his fingers. He took a bite.
Flavor exploded, rich and salty and smoky. A wave of pure, uncomplicated pleasure hit him first, followed immediately by a dizzying sense of rightness. His body knew this. His mouth remembered. He didn’t realize he’d closed his eyes until he opened them.
Luca was watching him, a piece of bacon forgotten in his hand. He saw the recognition flash across Rafael’s face, the fleeting surrender to a simple joy. Something in his own chest, perpetually knotted, loosened one painful increment.
“Good?” Luca asked, his voice rough.
“It’s…” Rafael searched for a word, settling on the truth. “Familiar.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes, the clatter of cutlery and the diner’s murmur filling the space. Rafael stole a glance at Luca’s plate. Almost unconsciously, he reached over and speared a particularly crispy piece of bacon with his fork.
He froze, fork in mid-air, bacon suspended between the plates. He’d done it automatically. You steal the crispy bits.
Luca didn’t move. He just looked from the bacon on Rafael’s fork to his face. A slow, deep breath expanded his chest. He gave one single, nearly imperceptible nod.
Rafael retracted the fork and ate the bacon. It tasted like forgiveness.
He was reaching for the hot sauce for his hash browns when the bell on the diner door jingled. Luca’s posture didn’t change, but the air around him did. It went from relaxed vigilance to a predatory stillness. Rafael followed his gaze.
Two men walked in. They wore cheap suits that didn’t fit quite right. Their eyes, flat and assessing, swept the room and landed on their booth. They didn’t look like Dot’s usual customers.
One of them, a man with a thin mustache and knuckles that had been broken more than once, offered a tight, meaningless smile. He started walking toward them.
Luca put his fork down. The sound was final.
“Finish your juice, Rafael,” he said, his voice so calm it was terrifying. “We’re leaving.”