CHAPTER 82: LEARNING TO LOVE YOU AGAIN

The world outside had quieted, but inside their safehouse, time felt suspended. The morning light slid gently through the curtains, painting golden lines across the bed where Aria lay awake, her thoughts caught between past and present. Luca was still sleeping, his breathing steady, his face softened by peace she rarely saw. It felt almost cruel that he could rest so easily when she still carried the weight of everything they’d lost.

She turned onto her side, studying him. The scar on his temple was still visible, a faint mark left by the accident that stole months of their lives and fractured their story. She had spent those months fighting for him, fighting to keep him alive, fighting to hold onto a love that sometimes felt like a ghost haunting her. Now he was here, breathing beside her, and yet part of him was still somewhere else.

When he stirred, his eyes fluttered open and found her. "You’re staring again," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

"Because you keep pretending to sleep when you’re not," she replied softly.

He smirked, a trace of his old arrogance glimmering through. "Old habits, I guess."

"Some habits," she whispered, "I don’t mind."

He reached out, brushing her cheek with the back of his fingers. "You used to look at me like that," he said. "Like I was everything."

"You were," she said simply.

Luca’s smile faltered, his gaze dropping to her lips. "And now?"

She hesitated. "Now, you’re someone I have to learn again."

There was no accusation in her voice, only quiet truth. It hurt her to admit it, but love, she realized, wasn’t just about holding on. It was about rebuilding, piece by fragile piece.

He sat up, leaning his elbows on his knees. "I don’t like not remembering," he confessed. "It feels like a punishment."

"It’s not," Aria said. "It’s a chance."

He turned to her, confusion knitting his brow. "A chance?"

"To fall in love again," she said softly.

Luca’s gaze lingered on her, searching her face for sincerity. "And what if I don’t do it right this time?"

"Then we start over again," she said, smiling faintly. "Until we get it right."

He exhaled, his tension softening. "You make it sound simple."

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

The days that followed became their quiet rhythm of rediscovery. Aria found small ways to bring pieces of their old life back to him, playing the jazz records they once danced to in the dark, cooking his favorite meals, showing him the little places in the estate that carried their memories.

In the evenings, they would walk through the garden. It was autumn now, and the roses had begun to fade, leaving behind petals like soft confessions on the ground. Luca often stopped to look at the fountain at the center, a relic of his family’s past, where water still trickled in a steady rhythm.

"I feel like I’ve stood here before," he said one evening, his tone distant.

"You have," Aria said. "This is where you told me you loved me for the first time."

He turned to her sharply. "Here?"

She smiled, her eyes soft with nostalgia. "You were angry. I was reckless. We’d just escaped another attack, and I told you I was tired of running. You grabbed my hand right here and said you’d rather die with me than live without me."

He blinked, trying to pull the image from the haze of his fractured memories. "That doesn’t sound like me."

"It wasn’t," she said. "Not the old you. But it was the real you."

For a long time, he said nothing. Then he reached out and took her hand, repeating the motion she described, his grip strong but tender. "Maybe that part of me isn’t gone after all."

Aria felt her chest tighten. "Maybe it never was."

One night, Luca found her sitting in the study, surrounded by papers. She had been reviewing old letters from her mother again, the ones that told stories of forbidden love, of betrayal, of survival. They mirrored too much of her own life, and sometimes, reading them made her ache with both pain and understanding.

"What are you doing?" he asked, leaning against the doorway.

"Trying to understand why everything feels like it’s repeating itself," she said. "Like I’m living her story all over again."

He walked closer, pulling out the chair beside her. "Maybe you’re rewriting it instead."

She looked up at him, caught off guard by the gentleness in his tone. "Rewriting it?"

"Your mother loved a man she couldn’t have," he said. "You love one who’s trying to become worthy of you."

Her throat tightened. "You’ve always been worthy, Luca. Even when you couldn’t see it."

He gave a low laugh. "Then maybe you’re the only one who ever believed that."

"Maybe that’s why we survived," she whispered.

His expression softened. "Aria. I don’t remember everything, but I know one thing for sure. Every time I look at you, I feel like I’ve been here before. Like my heart already knows where it belongs."

Her breath hitched. "Then don’t force it. Just feel it."

He nodded, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "I already am."

The next day, the estate was alive again, bodyguards moving through the halls, cars arriving with allies and family members. Word had spread that Luca was recovering, and the DeLuca name was once again commanding respect. But power didn’t comfort Aria. It only reminded her that danger still lingered like smoke in the air.

In the chaos of meetings and security checks, Luca found her on the terrace, looking out over the city. He approached quietly, his hand sliding around her waist.

"You don’t have to do this alone anymore," he said.

She leaned into him. "I know. But part of me keeps waiting for something to go wrong."

"Then let me be the one who catches it this time," he said.

She turned to face him. "You’ve already done enough."

"Not yet," he murmured. "You carried me when I couldn’t remember who I was. You loved me when I didn’t deserve it. Let me return that."

Her eyes met his, full of quiet emotion. "How?"

He smiled faintly. "By learning you again."

"Learning me?" she echoed.

"Everything," he said. "Your favorite wine. The way you like your coffee. The sound you make when you’re thinking too hard. The things that make you angry. The ones that make you laugh."

Her lips curved into a small smile. "You already knew all that."

"Maybe," he said. "But I want to fall for them all over again."

And for the first time since the accident, Aria’s heart began to believe that maybe, just maybe, they could build something stronger from the ashes.

That night, they danced again. It wasn’t planned. Luca had found one of her old records and played it softly in the dim light of their room. The melody was slow, familiar, and as it filled the air, he reached for her hand.

"May I?" he asked.

She nodded, placing her hand in his.

They moved slowly, the rhythm guiding them more than memory. His palm rested on her back, warm and steady, and when she looked up, their eyes met in a silence that said everything words couldn’t.

Halfway through the song, Luca whispered, "I remember this."

Aria froze. "You do?"

He nodded slowly. "You wore a red dress. We were at the villa. You laughed when I stepped on your foot."

Her eyes widened. "That was our anniversary."

He smiled faintly. "I said something that night. Something about forever."

"You said forever wasn’t long enough," she whispered, tears filling her eyes.

His forehead touched hers. "Then maybe it’s time to start believing that again."

Aria let out a shaky laugh, her tears falling freely. "You remember, Luca."

"Not everything," he said softly. "Just enough to know I never stopped loving you."

And in that moment, the weight of the past lifted. The shadows of what they’d lost faded into something gentler, something alive.

They swayed together until the record ended, and even when the music stopped, their hearts didn’t.

Because love, real love, wasn’t about remembering every detail. It was about choosing each other, again and again, no matter how many times the world tried to make them forget.

The following morning, Aria woke to the sizzle of bacon and the clatter of pans. She padded into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from her eyes, and found Luca at the stove, apron tied crookedly, brows furrowed in concentration. Smoke curled lazily from a pan where eggs had clearly met their demise.

"You’re cooking," she said, leaning against the counter, amusement bubbling in her chest.

"Attempting," he corrected, scraping charred bits into the trash with a grimace. "You always said breakfast was your love language. Figured I’d try."

She stepped closer, peering into the bowl of half-beaten batter. "Pancakes?"

"Was going for crepes," he admitted. "They’re mocking me."

Laughter spilled from her, bright and unguarded. She hip-bumped him aside, taking the whisk. "Let me show you. Thin batter, hot pan, confidence."

He watched her pour, flip, stack with practiced ease, his arms crossing as he leaned back. "You make it look easy."

"Practice," she said, sliding a perfect crepe onto a plate. "And stubbornness."

He tasted one, eyes closing in appreciation. "Still better than anything I ever made."

"You burned water once," she teased.

His grin was sheepish. "Sounds about right."

They ate at the small table by the window, knees brushing, sharing strawberries from the same bowl. Sunlight warmed their faces, and for a moment, the estate felt less like a fortress and more like a home.

Afternoons brought quiet adventures. Aria drove him to the old bookstore downtown, the one with creaky floors and shelves that smelled of vanilla and dust. She pulled a worn copy of poetry from the stack, the same book he’d read to her on rainy nights.

"You annotated this," she said, flipping to a dog-eared page. "Little notes in the margins. ’This is you when you’re angry.’ ’This one made you cry.’"

He traced the ink, faded but legible. "I was sentimental?"

"Secretly," she said. "You hid it behind scowls."

He bought the book, tucking it under his arm like a promise.

Evenings were for the piano in the music room, its keys yellowed with age. Aria played simple melodies, fingers dancing over notes she’d learned to soothe him after nightmares. Luca sat beside her on the bench, watching, then tentatively pressing a key. The sound rang out, clear and true.

"Play with me," she said.

He hesitated, then joined, their hands overlapping in a clumsy duet. Laughter echoed when they hit wrong notes, harmony found in the chaos.

One night, thunder rattled the windows. Luca tensed, a reflex from old storms. Aria found him on the balcony, rain soaking his shirt. She wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, pulling him inside.

"Bad one?" she asked.

"Flashes," he said. "Gunfire. Your face. Blood on my hands."

She cupped his cheeks. "That was the past. This is now."

He nodded, burying his face in her neck. "Stay."

"Always."

In the quiet weeks that followed, memories surfaced like bubbles: the way she sneezed in threes, his habit of leaving coffee half-drunk, the scar on her knee from climbing a fence to escape paparazzi. Each one was a gift, unwrapped slowly.

One dawn, Aria woke to find him sketching on the patio, charcoal smudging his fingers. He showed her the page: her face, laughing, eyes crinkled in joy.

"I don’t remember drawing before," he said. "But I remember *you*."

She kissed him then, tasting graphite and morning. "That’s all I need."

Love wasn’t the grand gestures anymore. It was burnt crepes and shared books, off-key duets and rain-soaked shoulders. It was choosing, every day, to learn the person beside you, even when the map was redrawn.

And in those small, stubborn acts, they found forever wasn’t a promise from the past. It was a decision, made anew with every sunrise.