CHAPTER 80: RELEARNING LOVE

The morning sunlight spilled across the sheets, gilding Aria’s hair in soft gold. Luca stirred beside her, his eyes half open, his body instinctively moving closer though his mind still struggled to catch up. For weeks now, their lives had been a quiet repetition of rediscovery: small smiles, accidental touches, long silences that hummed with something unspoken.

This morning, however, was different. Aria felt it before he even spoke.

He turned on his side, watching her carefully. "You said we used to fight a lot," he murmured, voice scratchy from sleep. "About what?"

She smiled faintly, keeping her voice soft. "Mostly about control. You liked it. I didn’t."

His lips twitched, an almost-smile. "Doesn’t sound like me."

"Oh, it was you," she teased gently. "You once told me love wasn’t about equality; it was about survival."

He frowned, fingers tracing the edge of the blanket. "And you stayed?"

"I fought you," she said simply. "Until you learned to fight with me instead of against me."

Something in his eyes softened. "And did I?"

She hesitated, then nodded. "You did."

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Then maybe I can learn again."

Later that day, Aria decided to take him to the garden: her sanctuary, the place where they’d once stolen hours away from chaos. The vines had grown wild since the attack, a beautiful kind of disorder that mirrored their lives. She handed him pruning shears, smiling. "You used to hate this, too."

Luca smirked slightly. "So basically, I hated everything."

"Not everything," she said, her tone playful. "You loved the lavender. You said its scent reminded you of something pure."

He sniffed the air, the faint sweetness brushing against his memory. His expression shifted, a flicker of recognition passing through. "I can almost see it: your hands, dirt under your nails, smiling at me like I was the sun."

Aria’s heart skipped. "That happened," she whispered.

"I believe you," he said quietly. "Even if I don’t remember."

They worked side by side, their silence no longer heavy but healing. The sun climbed higher, catching in his hair, glinting off his wedding band, a symbol he didn’t remember putting on her finger, but one he never took off.

When they finished, he sat beside her on the stone bench, wiping sweat from his brow. "I used to think being the Don meant keeping everything under control," he said. "Now, I don’t even know who I’m supposed to be."

"You’re supposed to be Luca," she said softly. "The man who fought for more than power. The man who learned that love could make him stronger, not weaker."

He stared at her for a long time. "You make me want to believe that again."

That evening, the mansion was quieter than usual. The guards had been reduced to a handful of loyal men; most of the danger had passed, but the scars it left behind lingered like ghosts.

Aria sat by the fireplace, a book in hand, though she wasn’t reading. She was waiting.

Luca entered moments later, his shirt half-unbuttoned, hair still damp from a shower. He moved with quiet confidence, different from before: more measured, less consumed by pride.

He stood near the fire for a moment, gaze on her. "You know, I’ve been thinking."

"That’s dangerous," she teased, setting the book aside.

He smirked, a flash of the man she once knew. "You keep saying we were in love. But I think you’re wrong."

Her smile faltered. "Wrong?"

He nodded slowly, stepping closer. "Because what I feel now, this, feels stronger than what any memory could hold."

Her breath caught. "Luca..."

He sat beside her, the warmth between them rising like a tide. "Every time I look at you, my chest aches. Not because I can’t remember, but because I want to. I want to know what it felt like to love you before the world fell apart. But maybe," he whispered, fingers brushing hers, "maybe we’re meant to fall in love all over again."

Aria’s throat tightened. "You already have."

He leaned in, breath mingling with hers. "Then show me."

The kiss that followed wasn’t urgent or desperate. It was rediscovery. Slow, tender, deliberate. His lips moved like a question; hers like an answer. The fire crackled behind them, throwing shadows across their entwined forms.

He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers. "Tell me something only we would know," he murmured.

Aria smiled faintly. "You once carried me out of a fight because I refused to leave a hostage behind. You said I was reckless and stubborn."

He chuckled softly. "Still sounds like you."

"And you said," she continued, voice trembling slightly, "that you’d rather die beside me than live without me."

The laughter faded from his eyes. "I said that?"

"You meant it," she whispered.

He kissed her again, harder this time, as if trying to summon the ghost of that promise from the depths of his soul.

The days that followed were filled with new beginnings. Aria taught him how to cook again, not because he needed to know, but because she wanted him to feel normal.

"You’re cutting it wrong," she said one afternoon, watching as he attempted to slice tomatoes.

He raised an eyebrow. "Since when did I let anyone tell me how to hold a knife?"

"Since I’m the one who feeds you," she quipped.

He grinned, shaking his head. "You’ve gotten bolder."

"I had to," she said. "You trained me."

The tension broke into laughter, and for a moment, everything felt light again.

When he leaned in to kiss her later, she didn’t stop him. Their lips met, soft and slow, the air between them thick with familiarity. When they pulled apart, his eyes held something deeper, something remembering.

"I think I know what this feels like," he whispered. "Not just love. Home."

Aria smiled, tears glimmering in her eyes. "That’s exactly what it is."

That night, as they lay in bed, the world outside felt far away. The moonlight washed across his face, tracing the faint scar along his jaw. She reached out, brushing her fingers over it.

He caught her hand, pressing it to his lips. "Do you ever wish I’d stayed the same?"

"No," she said softly. "The man you were then needed saving. The man you are now, he saves me every day, just by being here."

His voice was rough when he replied. "You make it sound easy."

"It’s not," she admitted. "But it’s real."

He shifted closer, breath warm against her ear. "Then let’s keep it that way."

Her heart fluttered. "What do you mean?"

He smiled faintly. "Let’s stop chasing what was. Let’s build what will be."

And with that, Luca kissed her again, slow, reverent, grounding her in the present instead of the past. For the first time since the accident, it didn’t matter whether his memories ever returned. The man holding her now was still him. The man she fell for, not once, but twice.

In his arms, under the silver wash of moonlight, Aria realized something quietly profound: Love wasn’t remembering. It was choosing, again and again, even through the broken pieces. And tonight, they chose each other once more.The next morning, Aria woke to the smell of burnt toast and the low hum of Luca swearing under his breath in the kitchen. She padded barefoot down the hall, rubbing sleep from her eyes, and found him standing over the toaster like it was a personal enemy.

"I followed the instructions," he said without turning, sensing her presence. "It still betrayed me."

She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a slow smile spreading. "You used to blame the bread. Said it was ’too soft for the job.’"

He glanced over his shoulder, flour dusting his cheek like a war wound. "Sounds like something I’d say."

"It was," she said, stepping closer. "You were very dramatic about breakfast."

He huffed a laugh, abandoning the toaster to pull her into his arms. His hands settled at her waist, thumbs tracing small circles through her T-shirt. "I’m starting to think the old me was kind of an idiot."

"Only on Tuesdays," she teased, rising on her toes to kiss the flour from his cheek.

They ate the slightly charred toast anyway, sitting on the kitchen counter, legs swinging like kids. He stole her orange juice. She stole his last bite of jam. Neither complained.

Later, they drove to the farmer’s market, something they used to do every Sunday before the world turned upside down. Luca carried the canvas bags, frowning at the price of tomatoes like they’d personally offended him. Aria watched him haggle with an old vendor over a bunch of basil, his voice low and charming, and felt her chest ache with a sweetness she couldn’t name.

"You did this every week," she said as they walked back to the car, arms full of greens and fresh bread. "You’d pretend to hate it, but you always picked the ripest peaches. Said they reminded you of summer mornings when you were a kid."

He looked down at the fruit in his hand, thumb brushing the soft fuzz. "I don’t remember that," he said quietly. "But I feel it. Like sunlight on my tongue."

She stopped walking. "That’s enough," she whispered. "That’s more than enough."

That night, after dinner, they sat on the back steps, sharing a bowl of those same peaches, juice dripping down their wrists. The sky was bruised purple, stars just beginning to prick through. Luca licked a drop from his thumb, then hers, his eyes never leaving her face.

"I used to think love was a battlefield," he said suddenly. "Something you won or lost. But this, sitting here, sticky fingers and bad toast and you laughing at my terrible cooking... this feels like peace."

Aria’s eyes filled. "It is."

He set the bowl aside, cupped her face with both hands, and kissed her slow and deep, tasting like summer and second chances. When he pulled back, his voice was rough with wonder. "I don’t need to remember falling in love with you the first time. I’m doing it right now. Every damn day."

She laughed through tears, pressing her forehead to his. "Good. Because I’m not going anywhere."

They stayed on the steps until the air turned cool, her head on his shoulder, his fingers threading through hers. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. A car passed. The world kept moving.

But inside their quiet bubble, time had stopped just long enough for two people to relearn how to hold each other, not with the weight of the past, but with the lightness of now.

And that, Aria realized, was the truest kind of love: not the one written in stone, but the one rebuilt, breath by breath, choice by choice, in the soft, stubborn spaces between forgetting and remembering.