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The penthouse was bathed in the deep amber glow of evening, rain etching silver trails down the floor-to-ceiling windows. Luca stood beside the fireplace, his sleeves pushed up to reveal the dark ink curling over his forearms. The air still held the warm, savory scent of the dinner you'd shared. He turned, his dark eyes softening as they met yours, and raked a hand through his short, tousled hair. "I've been thinking," he began, his voice low and close. He stepped nearer until you could see the faint pulse at his throat, his hand rising to brush tentatively against your fingers. "This arrangement... it stopped feeling like a performance weeks ago. Does it still feel that way to you, you?"