Short Changed || #ONC2022

Chapter VIII

Luca's home was far cleaner than Annabelle's. 

There were no clothes strewn around, no stains on the thick carpets or rumples on his beddings. Hell, even his tables were wooden and polished and pristine, and Annabelle could smell the faint scent of bleach as she walked in. 

Luca was the only thing that seemed out of place in his home. 

Dishevelled hair. Sunken eyes. Pale skin. 

He had been crying. 

Annabelle hovered by the door awkwardly, even as he beckoned her inside. 

She had hoped that she would rock up to his house, confess her feelings for him, and he would confess his own, and then... well, what? Dance into the sunset? Hear fireworks outside? That wasn't really how things worked, was it? 

Worse yet, she hadn't expected to walk into his home to find tears streaking his face and muffled sobs escaping his lips. 

Almost robotically, she found herself following Luca to the lounge, where she sat on some creaking rocking chair. Luca sat across from her, staring down at his feet. 

Neither of them said a word. 

Annabelle toyed with her hands. Glanced out the window. Hummed an awkward little Christmas carol. 

Finally, as Luca wiped another fresh set of tears from his eyes, she sighed.

Looks like she had to be the one to kick things off.  

"Are you alright?" she asked.

Luca nodded, though he didn't look up at her. "Yeah. I've just..." 

"You've been crying." 

"Yeah." 

"Did you and Christina..." 

His brows shot up. "Oh, no. No, no, no. There was a death in the family." 

Annabelle felt that like a pinch to her own guts. 

He had lost family. He had been suffering all morning silently, and she hadn't been there to help him. 

"I'm so sorry, Luca," she whispered. "I'm really sorry for your loss. Can I ask who it was?" 

"Scabious." 

"As in... your turtle?" 

Luca nodded solemnly. For half of a frantic second, Annabelle thought he was joking. 

When he choked back on another sob, she nearly let her jaw drop. 

This man was entirely serious.

He was devastated because his turtle had died. And, here she was, wanting to tell him that she had feelings for him. Was it the wrong time? Or would he be fine about it? Did it sound ridiculous if she told him, when he had spent the morning possibly crying about some green-shelled-slimy-thing that existed in his bedroom for a few months?

"Do you want a hug?" Annabelle finally asked him. 

"Yeah. A hug would be nice." 

Instantly, she was on her feet, reaching out to envelop her arms around him. 

It felt good, hugging him. Like something was fitting into place. Like her arms just knew where to go, and the warmth his brought was exactly what she needed. His breath on the back of her neck, and the softness of his fingers as he ran them down her back--

Annabelle felt a shiver crawl up her spine.

His turtle just died. And here she was, turned on by a hug that was supposed to be a mourning hug.