Page 96 of Scorpio Season

“Yes, you will,” Luca says patiently.

“I hate songwriting.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I don’t know what to write about.”

“What do you normally write about?”

Florence has to think about it for a moment. It usually begins with a metaphor, or maybe a myth. Werewolves, sirens, the Library of Alexandria. Something fantastical. Something flashy enough to keep people’s attention.

“I think,” she says after a moment, “I write stories.”

It’s only as she says it out loud that she realizes how true it is. Of course there’s a kernel of truth in her songs, but it’s buried deep enough that her audience would have to dig to unearth it. She doesn’t write about her feelings; she writes around them. It’s always felt safer that way.

Juno’s words come back to her. When was the last time you felt a little bit too exposed in front of someone?

“Maybe,” Luca says cautiously, “it’s time to write something real?”

Florence cranes her head back to look at her. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Like what you’re feeling. Like the things you’ve told me.”

“But then everyone will know,” Florence says.

“I think that might be the point.” Luca tucks a curl behind Florence’s ear. “I still have a few hours left of my shift. I’ll swing back around when you need a refill.”

“I adore you.” It comes out without thinking. Florence only realizes what she said when Luca’s eyes widen, her lips breaking into a grin that’s so bright it hurts to look at.

“Yeah,” she says. “Just like that.”

She presses a kiss to Florence’s shoulder. Then she’s making her way back to the counter, leaving Florence to her empty pages.

She takes a long, considering sip from her drink before pulling her notebook closer.

Something real.

They fall back into bed the minute they make it back to Luca’s place. As Florence scrambles to unbuckle Luca’s belt, she wonders how she’s supposed to go about her life like a normal person now that she knows she can have this—now that she’s had Luca beneath her, trembling and gasping and falling apart at Florence’s touch.

“God,” she pants against Luca’s mouth as she gets her shirt over her head and slides her hands over Luca’s freckled shoulders, the muscles in her arms. “You’re so hot. I actually don’t think you understand how hot you are.”

Luca ducks her head, her ears turning a familiar pink. It hasn’t even been twelve hours since they last had sex, but Florence already feels starved. She thinks she could spend a lifetime in Luca’s bed and it would barely be enough to take the edge off.

“Get on the bed,” she says once she’s finally gotten Luca naked.

Luca complies immediately. Florence takes a moment to let herself look. She traces her eyes along Luca’s bare feet, her shins, her knobby knees. Further up, along Luca’s spread thighs, her hips, the softness of her belly, her chest. Her throat, which bobs as she swallows, her parted, bitten lips, the color in her cheeks. Her eyes, already glazed and heavy-lidded as she watches Florence watch her, squirming against the navy-blue sheets.

After weeks of spending every waking minute together, Florence knows the precise shade Luca blushes and the restless energy that simmers under her skin, how badly she wants to be good, to turn off her brain and have someone else take over, to be given an achievable challenge and be told she did well afterward. Florence thought she was handsome the first time they met, but that was when Luca was still a stranger. Now she loves Luca’s body because it’s Luca’s, and that changes everything. She doesn’t just want to fuck her. She wants to trace every single one of her freckles. She wants to flip her onto her stomach and massage the tension out of her shoulders. She wants to make her come until she weeps, make it so good she can’t stand it, then wash her hair in the shower and cook her dinner.

“Flo.” Luca’s voice rips her from her thoughts, soft and frayed at the edges. Florence can see how hard she’s trying to keep herself still, to let herself be looked at, her fingers curled into the bedding to stop herself from fidgeting.

“You’re all right,” Florence tells her gently.

She takes her time undressing, letting Luca watch. It’s a relief to finally get out of her clothes—the bedroom is even hotter than it was this morning, early evening light filtering in through the gauzy curtains.

By the time she gets onto the bed, Luca has bitten her bottom lip raw. Kneeling between her thighs, Florence leans down to press a kiss to Luca’s hip bone. “Tell me what you want.”

“I don’t know,” Luca mumbles.