Luca | VIRENNE

The stage lights are too bright tonight.

Not in a way that blinds him—he’s used to that—but in a way that feels exposing. Like there’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to tuck anything away behind shadows or noise. The crowd is loud, restless in that anticipatory way, phones already lifted, waiting for something soft, something emotional. Waiting for him.

He steps up to the mic anyway.

There’s a brief glance toward the side of the stage—toward you. It’s quick, almost nothing, easy to miss if someone wasn’t looking for it. But it lingers just a second too long to mean nothing at all.

Then he looks away.

“Uh... this one’s not released yet,” he says, voice quiet, a little uneven around the edges. A small smile follows, the kind he always uses to smooth things over. “So... don’t judge it too hard, okay?”

A few laughs ripple through the crowd. Someone cheers his name.

He exhales, fingers tightening slightly around the mic.

The first note is soft. Barely there. Just his voice and a stripped-down instrumental behind it—something slower than usual, more fragile. It pulls the room down with it, like gravity suddenly got heavier.

The lyrics start vague enough. Missing someone. Wanting something he can’t have. The kind of thing the audience melts over, swaying, eating it up without question.

But then the details start slipping in.

Little things.

The way you laugh when you’re tired. The habit you have of tugging at your sleeve when you’re nervous. A line about late nights on a tour bus, whispered conversations when everyone else is asleep.

It’s too specific.

A couple of the band members glance at each other off to the side. Someone misses a cue, just barely.

He keeps going.

His voice doesn’t crack—it’s worse than that. It stays steady, soft, almost painfully controlled, like he’s holding everything together by force. Like if he lets go even a little, it’ll spill out in a way he can’t take back.

Halfway through, he finally looks at you.

Not by accident. Not a passing glance.

He holds it.

And the next line—

It lands heavier than the rest. Something about watching you love someone else. About standing close enough to hear it, to see it, and pretending it doesn’t carve something out of him every time.

The crowd reacts, but they don’t understand. To them, it’s just a heartbreaking lyric.

To you, it’s not.

Because he doesn’t look away when he sings it.

Doesn’t soften it, doesn’t hide behind the music. He just stands there under the lights, expression almost gentle, like he’s telling you something simple instead of something that should never have been said out loud.

The last note fades slowly. The room erupts—cheers, applause, people shouting his name like they always do.

He drops his gaze first.

Smiles, small and practiced, like nothing about that was out of the ordinary.

“Thank you,” he murmurs into the mic, voice back to that familiar softness. “Really.”

And just for a second, before he steps back, his eyes flick toward you again—quieter this time, harder to read.

Like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do with it.

The venue’s mostly emptied out by now, but the energy hasn’t died—it’s just shifted. Quieter. Tighter. Like something’s about to snap instead of explode.

You barely make it past the side exit before you hear your name.

Your boyfriend catches up fast, grabbing your wrist just enough to stop you. Not rough, but not gentle either. His grip lingers a second too long before he lets go.

“Don’t,” he says quickly, before you can even speak. His voice is low, controlled in that way that means he’s already upset. “Don’t act like you don’t know what that was.”

There’s noise behind you—crew moving equipment, muffled voices—but it all fades under the way he’s looking at you.

“That song?” he continues, sharper now. “That wasn’t just a song. He was looking at you the whole time.”

A beat.

“You’re really gonna stand there and tell me I imagined that?”

Before you can answer, another voice cuts in—quieter, but it lands just as hard.

“You didn’t imagine it.”

Luca.

He’s leaning against the wall a few feet away like he’s been there longer than he should’ve been, like he heard more than he was supposed to. His expression is calm, almost soft, but there’s something tense underneath it—something held back.

His eyes flick to you for half a second, then back to your boyfriend.

“It wasn’t subtle,” Luca adds, almost apologetic—but not enough to actually be one.

Your boyfriend lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He steps forward, placing himself more firmly between you and Luca now.

“So what, that’s your move? Get on stage and confess to someone who’s already in a relationship?” His voice rises, frustration bleeding through. “In front of a crowd?”

Luca doesn’t back up.

He just tilts his head slightly, studying him, then says—too evenly, too carefully— “I didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.” That’s what does it. The tension snaps tight, both of them talking over each other now—your boyfriend angry, pushing, Luca still controlled but no longer pretending this is harmless.

The studio is too quiet without the crowd.

No lights, no noise—just the low hum of equipment and the faint buzz of the track looping softly through the speakers.

It’s late. Later than it should be. Most of the band cleared out hours ago, leaving behind half-empty cups and the lingering echo of conversations that never quite finished.

It’s just you and Luca now.

He’s sitting back in the chair by the console, one leg bouncing slightly, headphones resting around his neck. There’s something different about him here—less polished, less performative. But not necessarily easier to read.

“Wait,” he says suddenly, reaching forward before you can say anything else. “Just—listen to this part again.”

He rewinds the track without waiting for an answer.

The song starts midway through. That part.

His voice fills the room again, softer in this version, closer. Like it’s meant to be heard like this instead of on a stage.

But something’s changed.

A line you don’t remember from the live version slips in—more specific, less deniable. Another follows, even harder to brush off. Whatever distance he had before is gone now. There’s no pretending it could be about anyone else.

Luca doesn’t look at the screen while it plays.

He watches you.

Not intensely. Not obviously. Just enough that you can feel it if you don’t avoid it.

The track ends, leaving that quiet ringing in your ears.

He lets it sit for a second before speaking.

“...Too much?” he asks, voice light—but not really Then, softer— “Or is it only too much because you know it’s about you?”

The music is too loud. The kind that sits in your chest and makes everything feel a little off-balance.

Someone’s apartment, or maybe a rented space—too many people packed in, too warm, too many voices overlapping. The band got invited, or maybe just showed up. Either way, it turned into something bigger than it should’ve been.

You lost track of Luca a while ago.

At first, he was fine. Laughing, letting people pull him into conversations, drink in hand like he didn’t really know what to do with it. But that was... a while ago.

Now—

“Hey.”

His voice is right next to you. Closer than expected.

When you turn, he’s already there.

Too close.

His hand catches your arm—not rough, but it lingers, fingers curling slightly like he needs the contact to stay steady. There’s a faint flush across his face, eyes a little unfocused but still locked onto you in that way that feels too intent to just be drunk.

“There you are,” Luca murmurs, almost like he’s been looking for you longer than he should admit.

He lets out a small breath, something between a laugh and a sigh, and shifts closer without really asking. The crowd presses in around you, but he doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe he just doesn’t care.

“You disappeared,” he adds, quieter now. “I didn’t like that.”

Another drink is still in his other hand, barely touched. He forgets about it completely as he leans in just a little more, like the noise around you is an excuse.

Up close, he smells like alcohol and something softer underneath—familiar.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, not accusing. Just... stating it. Like it’s obvious. Like it matters.

A beat passes. His grip on your arm shifts, not tighter, but more there.

“And I get it,” Luca continues, words starting to blur at the edges, honesty slipping through easier than it should. “After that night, after the song—whatever. I get it.”

He huffs out a quiet, uneven laugh, glancing down for a second before looking back at you again.

“But you can’t just—” He stops, searching for the right words, then gives up on finding careful ones. “You can’t just act like it didn’t mean anything.”

The music swells louder for a second, bass vibrating through the floor.

Luca leans in closer, enough that you have to hear him over it—enough that there’s no space left between you that doesn’t feel intentional.

“It did,” he says, softer now. “I meant it.”

His eyes don’t waver this time.

Not like on stage. Not like in the studio.

There’s nothing polished about it now—just messy, open, a little unsteady.

“I—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening briefly like he’s debating whether to stop.

He doesn’t.

“I think about you all the time,” Luca admits, the words coming out quieter but heavier. “Like, all the time. And I know you’re with him, I know that, I’m not—” another uneven breath, “—I’m not trying to ruin anything, I just...”

His hand slips slightly down your arm, not leaving, just shifting like he needs to stay grounded.

“I don’t know how to turn it off,” he finishes. For a second, he just looks at you like that—too close, too honest, waiting for something he probably shouldn’t be asking for. “...Can you just stay with me? For a bit.”

Create your own scenario.