The first love reignited

The morning light filtered through the blinds in fractured slashes, casting gold and shadow across the room like a silent storm. Luca stood by the window, chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths. His phone dangled loosely in his hand, the screen dark now—but the message it had delivered still echoed in his mind like a curse.

We know everything.

But even that wasn’t what was driving him to the edge. Not really.

It was her.

Isabella.

The ghost from a past he could never bury. The woman who had once held his entire world in her hands—and shattered it with a single decision. She had chosen someone else. She had walked away. She had left him behind.

And now she was here. Standing in the doorway of his bedroom like a vision he hadn’t dared dream of. Like a sin returning to tempt him one last time.

Her wedding dress clung to her like second skin—soaked, torn, her hair damp and tangled, sticking to her pale cheeks. Her eyes, once so soft, now held shadows and secrets. But still—they were her eyes. Still the ones that had looked at him like he was everything, once.

“Luca,” she breathed, and the sound of his name on her lips nearly broke him.

He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His throat was too tight. His body too tense. He could feel the air crackle between them like a fuse lit.

And then she moved.

No hesitation. No apology.

Her bare feet barely made a sound against the hardwood floor, but every step she took toward him was thunder in his chest. When she reached him, she didn’t ask permission. Her hands rose to his face, fingers trembling as they brushed over his jaw, down his neck, memorizing him all over again.

He closed his eyes and let her.

Just for a second.

Then he kissed her.

Or maybe she kissed him.

There was no beginning. No end. Only heat. Only mouths crashing and tongues tangling in a fury of forgotten years and buried feelings. Her body melted into his, damp silk pressing against bare skin, and he pulled her closer—harder—like he could weld her to him and keep her there forever.

There was nothing tender about it. This wasn’t love, not in the soft, gentle sense. This was grief, lust, anger, longing—twisted into something dangerous and wild.

He lifted her, her legs wrapping around his waist with a gasp, and carried her across the room. Their lips never parted. The kiss deepened, darkened. Her fingers tangled in his hair, yanking him closer like she couldn’t get enough, like she’d waited a thousand lifetimes for this moment to come back.

He dropped her onto the bed, his body following in a blur of heat and urgency. The mattress groaned beneath them as his weight pressed her into the sheets. She arched beneath him, wild, wordless, desperate.

His hands slid down her sides, tugging at the ruined fabric of her dress. She gasped as it peeled away, exposing skin still cold from rain, but quickly warming under his touch. When she lay beneath him in nothing but flushed skin and shallow breath, he paused—not to stop, but to look.

To see her.

To burn this version of her into his memory.

Eyes wide. Lips parted. Chest heaving.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped, voice rough with restraint. “And I will.”

But she didn’t.

Instead, she reached up, her fingers tracing the curve of his mouth. “I don’t want you to stop. I want to forget everything but this.”

And so he did.

Luca dipped his head, mouth finding the swell of her breast, kissing, sucking, marking. Her back arched as a moan slipped from her lips, raw and needy. His hand slid down between them, fingers teasing over her thigh, up, higher—until she gasped again, her hips lifting to meet him.

“Luca,” she whimpered, hands clutching his back. “Please.”

He didn’t need more than that.

Their bodies collided with a hunger that bordered on madness. Every thrust was a memory, every kiss a silent apology. Her moans filled the room, blending with his groans, with the creak of the bed, with the ragged breath of two people falling apart and coming together all at once.

There was no more past. No betrayal. No names or choices or regrets.

There was only now.

Her nails dug into his shoulders, her legs tightening around him as he drove into her with everything he had. She met him with equal fury, every movement a confession she couldn’t speak with words.

“I hate you,” she gasped against his mouth.

“I know,” he whispered back. “Me too.”

But their mouths met again anyway.

His length penetrated inside her Harder. Deeper. Her clit was wet and so warm and felt like staying there inside of her . He raised her legs up and pounded her so hard until she put her fingers in between his hair screaming loudly “Dont stop”

He released all his essence inside her and was filled with joy that the woman he loved his finally back to him at last

Because hate like theirs only lived when love had once burned too brightly to survive.

And tonight, that fire reignited.

When she shattered beneath him—writhing, crying out his name like it was salvation and punishment—he followed, unable to stop, unable to hold anything back.

They lay there after, tangled and breathless, limbs still trembling, chests still heaving. The sheets twisted beneath them, damp with sweat, the silence between them broken only by the sound of their racing hearts.

He turned his head, met her gaze. There were tears in her eyes—but she wasn’t crying.

Not yet.

“Isabella…” he said, voice low, unsure of what to say next.

She reached for his hand, laced their fingers together.

“Don’t ruin it with words,” she murmured.

So he didn’t.

He just held her tighter.

And for one night—for one fragile, stolen moment—they let themselves belong to each other again before the drama happens.