CHAPTER 159: ROOMS WAITING FOR US

The first building rose in pale brick, sun-warmed and clean, ivy stubbornly climbing its flank like it refused to be ignored.

Luca followed the agent up the narrow stairwell, each step clicking softly, old wood sighing under his weight.

"Second floor," the man said, jingling the keys. "Small but bright. A lot of students favor this location—close to Crescent Hill, coffee shops just around the corner."

The lock turned, the door swung open.

Light poured in from tall windows, dust drifting like slow sparks in the air.

The faint tang of fresh paint clung to the walls, sharp but new.

"So, here’s the living room." The agent stepped aside, letting Luca in first.

Luca stepped inside, and immediately his imagination betrayed him:

Noel sprawled across the floor, textbooks everywhere, muttering about deadlines.

The image tugged a smile from him before he could stop it.

"It’s... nice," Luca murmured, trying to sound neutral.

"Plenty of space for a sofa, maybe even a small dining set," the agent suggested.

Luca’s eyes flicked to the corner near the window. Noel would hate that draft.

He’d end up stealing my blanket and never give it back.

They moved on.

The kitchen was narrow, with cabinets in a polite cream. The agent opened one of them, gesturing. "Decent storage, and the appliances are new."

Luca braced himself against the counter, fingertips skating over the edge.

In his mind, Noel stood there in one of his ridiculous aprons, cursing the stove for running hot while flour dusted his hair like snow.

He’d laugh, swear it wasn’t his fault.

"Too small?" the agent asked, misreading Luca’s quiet.

"Uh, maybe just... cozy," Luca replied quickly, cheeks warming.

They stepped into the bedroom, a square of calm with afternoon light stretching across the floorboards.

The agent droned about closet space, but Luca barely heard.

His eyes lingered on the empty bed frame, already imagining Noel hogging the pillows, griping about the weak morning light—only to secretly love it, just to spite him.

"Mr. Smith?"

"Hm?" Luca snapped back, realizing he’d been staring too long.

The agent smiled politely. "Shall we check the second place? It’s a little larger, closer to Ashbourne."

"Yes," Luca said, clearing his throat. "Let’s see that one."

But as he followed the man out, Noel’s ghost trailed with him—smiling, teasing, filling every empty corner with noise.

The second apartment was brighter, sunlight pouring in through tall windows that overlooked a row of maple trees.

The floors were polished wood, the walls freshly painted, and the kitchen smelled faintly of new varnish.

Luca trailed behind the agent, hands in his pockets, scanning the space with a distracted air.

His lips curved, faint, as his gaze lingered on the kitchen counter.

He could almost see Noel there, sleeves rolled up, frowning over some doomed recipe he swore he’d perfect.

"This one’s a bit more spacious," the agent was saying. "The landlord just renovated it."

Luca hummed, not committing. He drifted into the living room, touched the window frame. "Noel would like this," he whispered under his breath.

The agent blinked. "Sorry?"

Luca shook his head quickly, heat rising in his cheeks. "Nothing. Just... thinking out loud." He hesitated, then pulled out his phone. "Would it be alright if I—uh—took a few photos? For reference."

"Of course," the man said with a smile, stepping aside.

Luca snapped photos—the sunlit kitchen, the tidy balcony, the quiet street outside.

But the lens betrayed him; each frame filled itself with Noel.

Noel cursing at boxes, Noel sprawled smugly across the sofa, Noel laughing at nothing.

When they finished the walkthrough, Luca still couldn’t say yes.

He chewed his lip, shoved his phone back into his pocket.

"I guess none of them feel quite right?" the agent asked, tilting his head.

"Not yet," Luca admitted.

The man smiled, patient. "Then we’ll continue tomorrow. I’ll find you something that clicks."

"Thanks. Really."

By the time Luca stepped back into the afternoon air, his phone was already in hand.

He scrolled, stopped at the kitchen bathed in sunlight, and lingered. His thumb hovered, then pressed send.

What do you think? he typed, attaching the photo. Could you see yourself here?

His grin was crooked, boyish, as he hit send.

The late afternoon sun was softening when Luca made his way back, the streets humming with quiet life—kids chasing a ball, a woman leaning out her balcony watering plants, the low rumble of traffic in the distance.

His steps were unhurried, phone tucked in his hand, screen lit with that photo of the sun-soaked kitchen.

A buzz cut through the air.

Noel: Hmm. I don’t like it.

Luca’s brow lifted, a small laugh slipping from him. "Of course you don’t," he muttered, shaking his head, but his grin was still there as he pushed open the gate to his building.

Another message blinked in before he could pocket the phone.

Noel: Call me.

He didn’t even bother with the stairs at first—just leaned against the railing, thumb hitting dial.

The line rang twice, then Noel’s voice came through, rich and low, like it always was when he was half-distracted. "You’re really trying to put me in that kitchen, aren’t you?"

Luca unlocked the door to his apartment with one hand, still laughing under his breath. "What, you hate the lighting? I thought you’d look perfect scowling there—sun haloed behind you, sleeves rolled, straight out of a magazine."

"I’d set foot in that place and burn dinner on purpose," Noel said, his tone dry. In the background Luca could hear a faint shuffle of papers, a chair creaking. "Where are you now?"

"Home," Luca replied, kicking his shoes off at the door. "And you?"

"Library." Noel’s voice dropped a touch, softer. "You can probably hear the dust."

Luca sprawled on the sofa, phone pressed against his ear. He let a silence stretch, listening to Noel breathe on the other end, before murmuring, "So... none of these fit you yet."

"They don’t fit us," Noel corrected, soft, like he almost didn’t mean to say it aloud.

That made Luca’s chest tighten in a way no empty apartment ever could. He smiled into the quiet, his voice light when he answered, "Guess we’ll have to keep looking then."

Luca lay back, one arm over his eyes, phone balanced at his ear. "You sound like you’re buried in books."

"I am," Noel admitted. "Stacks everywhere. My father hoards them like treasure." A pause, then wryly, "If the roof ever caves in, I’ll die under first editions."

Luca smirked. "What a dramatic obituary. Here lies Noel, taken down by dusty Shakespeare."

"I’d haunt you if you wrote that on my gravestone."

"I’d visit you just to laugh," Luca shot back, grin audible in his tone.

On the other end, Noel went quiet for a moment, the faint sound of paper turning filling the line. "You’re smiling again," he murmured, not a question.

Luca’s breath caught, just slightly. "Maybe. You wouldn’t know—you’re not here to see."

"I don’t need to see," Noel said softly.

The words slid between them like warm light. Luca sat up, rubbing at the back of his neck, suddenly restless. "Well," he tried, tone lighter, "you’ll get another photo tomorrow. Better one. Maybe third time’s the charm."

"You’d better send it," Noel warned, feigning sternness. "Don’t you dare choose without me."

"As if I could," Luca replied. "I’d probably sign the papers and regret it the second you scowled at me in the doorway."

That earned a low chuckle from Noel, the kind that curled into Luca’s chest and stayed there. "Then wait. We’ll find one together."

The silence after was soft, not heavy. Luca curled into the couch cushions, eyes closing. "You’re bossy, you know that?"

"Someone has to keep you from rushing headfirst into bad kitchens," Noel answered, voice gentler now, almost lazy.

And for a long moment, neither of them spoke—just the faint sound of Noel shifting in his chair, and Luca breathing evenly, as if they were in the same room.

Finally, Luca whispered, almost reluctant, "Go back to your dusty books before I keep you up all night."

"You already do," Noel said, a quiet confession.

Luca’s lips curved into a smile only Noel could pull from him. "Good."

Neither hung up right away.

Luca stretched out on the couch, phone resting against his ear, eyes half-closed. Noel’s voice was softer now, touched with the weight of late hours.

"You’re still there?" Noel asked, quieter than before.

"Mm," Luca hummed. "Where else would I be?"

A faint rustle—Noel leaning back in his chair. "I can hear you getting sleepy."

"Not sleepy. Just..." Luca paused, smiling at the ceiling. "Listening."

"To what?"

"You."

Silence, then Noel laughed under his breath, a fragile sound, like he didn’t want to disturb the moment. "You’re ridiculous."

"Maybe. But you like it."

Luca could picture it too vividly—Noel curled in his father’s library chair, lamplight cutting him in half, fighting not to smile too wide.

"Read me something," Luca murmured suddenly.

"What?"

"You’re surrounded by books. Pick one. Pretend it’s a bedtime story."

There was shuffling, a spine sliding off a shelf. Then Noel’s voice—low, even—began to read a few lines, something old, words curling rich and careful into Luca’s ear.

Luca shut his eyes. "Your voice makes it better. Doesn’t matter what it is."

Noel stopped mid-sentence. "Don’t say things like that."

"Why not? It’s true."

The silence wasn’t empty—it pulsed, thick with everything they couldn’t yet say aloud.

Minutes passed like that. Luca drifting, Noel quietly flipping pages, sometimes making a dry comment, sometimes letting the hush speak for him.

At some point, Noel whispered, "You’ve gone quiet."

"Still here," Luca mumbled, words slurred. "Don’t hang up."

"I wasn’t going to."

Luca smiled, barely conscious now. The last thing he caught was Noel’s breathing, steady and close, before the weight of sleep finally pulled him under.

And in the library, Noel kept the line open, staring at the darkened glass, listening to Luca’s slow breathing as if it were the only thing holding the night together.