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ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢɪɴɢ

Vera had planned to come to Rome. The key had made sure of that. What she hadn’t planned for was what Rome would do to her.

For the way her chest would ache walking those ancient streets—half from grief, half from the strange comfort of belonging. Like the city knew her name before she remembered it herself.

She also hadn’t packed for him.

Sure, she’d asked Lukas to come. Scrawled it on a napkin like a dare she didn’t expect anyone to take. But he had. No questions, no conditions. He came. And since then, he had stayed in all the right ways—quiet when it mattered, steady when her knees wanted to give out, smiling at her like she was something worth waiting to understand.

She hadn’t packed for the way he looked in candlelight.
Or for how his laugh sometimes cracked something open in her chest.
Or for how safe his silence felt.

She definitely hadn’t packed for the way her hands now itched to draw again—his profile, the arches, the way the shadows played on the walls of this forgotten house that might be hers. Maybe she’d even finish one of the tattoo sketches she'd been too afraid to show anyone. Maybe she’d sketch him first.

She hadn't packed for this kind of want. Not lust, not exactly. Something gentler. A slow unfolding. Like maybe she’d been stitched together too tight for years, and now, finally, someone was undoing the threads without hurting her.

She didn’t come here for love. That wasn’t the plan. The plan was a key, a mystery, a house that might explain her past.

But now, with Lukas just a few steps away, laughing, cursing at dusty furniture, kissing her like she was something written in his stars too... Vera was starting to think that maybe this was never about finding where she came from. Maybe it was about finally allowing herself to belong.