The sun crept softly into the West Village apartment, penetrating the thin curtains not fully drawn. The morning air carried the scent of a city not yet fully awake—and the smell of stale coffee from last night. Joey placed his backpack on the sofa, glancing toward the kitchen.
Domenico sat there. His demeanor was calm, as if the space had been his from the beginning.
"Welcome back," the man said in his low, distinctive voice, like the sea wind from Calabria carrying uninvited news.
Joey stood frozen. His entire body felt coated in a thin mist—between wanting to approach, wanting to run, and wanting to fall into an embrace he could no longer trust.
Domenico didn't move from his chair. One hand held an empty mug. His gaze was flat but deep. He observed Joey's face like someone looking at their home after a long absence—checking if the walls were still as sturdy as before.
Joey finally walked slowly to the kitchen. His shoes left damp footprints on the floor from the outside air. "When did you arrive?" he asked, trying to sound neutral in his unsteady tone. A mix of happiness and trepidation.
"This morning. Overnight flight from Lamezia." Domenico's voice didn't change, so calm and overly familiar. "Fabio picked me up, but I sent him home. I thought I'd stay here until noon."
Joey didn't answer. His hands moved to the shelf, taking the half-empty jar of cheap instant coffee. He poured it into a filter, added hot water, then leaned against the counter, waiting. The bitter aroma began to fill the room.
Domenico raised an eyebrow slightly. "Still the same cheap coffee?"
Joey smiled slightly. "I like the taste."
Domenico leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. "I brought your favorite food," he said softly.
Joey turned slowly.
Domenico pointed to the table near the fridge, where a thick paper bag from Mizuki Teppanyaki—an upscale Japanese restaurant in Midtown—lay quietly. Its aroma was still faintly detectable. There were two sealed takeout boxes with a golden logo, containing still-warm yakiniku in exclusive aluminum packaging.
Not far from it, on the floor, Joey just noticed a large bag from a Japanese store filled with various flavors of potato chips—sweet corn, seaweed, and the salty cheese flavor he'd loved since childhood.
His eyes bounced to the logo on the plastic. There was a brief silence that wasn't just silence—it was something resembling memories forced back through small gestures.
"You still remember this salty cheese flavor?" Domenico asked casually, as if chatting in a restaurant, not crossing privacy boundaries.
Joey didn't answer immediately. His gaze softened—a little more tender, a little more fragile.
"If I'd known you'd be coming home secretly, I would've cleaned up and made a romantic lunch," Joey muttered half-sarcastically.
"You know I don't like surprises," Domenico replied.
"Funny, because you love showing up out of nowhere."
Joey slid a mug of coffee onto the table, then sat slowly in the chair opposite. Their eyes met over the rising steam.
"Five days. And not a single message from you," Domenico said, a slight pause in the air. "Should I assume you were too busy missing me in silence?"
Joey sipped his coffee slowly, then looked at him expressionlessly, his tone flat and full of sarcasm. "Oh, sorry. I thought our communication system was based on smoke signals and dominant telepathy."
Domenico smiled thinly. "You didn't sleep well without me, did you?"
Joey rolled his eyes, letting out a short sigh.
"I actually slept better. The room felt normal. Like it wasn't under Saint Peter Mafia's surveillance."
Domenico leaned forward, his voice low but sharp. "Then why are you still wearing my shirt to sleep?"
The man had earlier seen his white shirt lying in the dryer among Joey's other clothes.
Joey paused briefly, then shrugged casually. "Maybe I ran out of clothes. Or maybe the shirt coincidentally wards off nightmares."
Domenico nodded slowly, then sipped his coffee. "I thought so. Because even nightmares are reluctant to get close to me."
Joey held back a smile. "Or maybe the nightmare knows you don't like competition."
Domenico looked at him, his dark eyes narrowing with faint amusement. "I don't compete. I take over."
Joey stood up, pulling his chair back while holding his cup. "You're right. But a nightmare in an Armani suit is still a nightmare, Dom."
The coffee steam began to thin, leaving a bitter smell lingering in the air. The yakiniku on the table remained untouched, but its presence was enough to offer a false sense of fullness between them.
Domenico rested his elbows on the table, watching Joey in silence before finally saying, "Your shoot is over, right?"
Joey nodded slowly, his eyes still on his cup. "Two weeks ago. Rooftop wrap party."
"How did it feel?" asked Domenico. His voice was calm, but there was a faint thread of tension, like someone examining an old wound through news.
Joey answered slowly. "Weird, sad, but also relieving." He turned, looking at the man briefly. "It felt like saying goodbye to a version of myself that won't return."
Domenico nodded slowly, as if understanding. His lips curled into a small, unreadable smile. "Rest, Joey."
Joey looked at him. "Funny. I should be saying that to you." He placed the cup in the sink, his voice soft but clear. "Rest more, Dom."
Domenico didn't respond immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the young man, tracing the lines of a face that looked more mature, more silent.
Joey knew his words were futile. The world this man lived in never allowed time for 'rest.' Yet, he still said it—because sometimes, saying something is the only form of hope he can offer.
"Even though you never truly sleep," Joey continued, then turned and looked at him—his blue eyes clear but full, like a sea hiding a storm. "I know what you're fighting. And what's coming for you."
Domenico froze for a moment. Then he smiled faintly—not a triumphant smile, but something more weary. "You don't need to know everything, Joey."
"I don't know everything," Joey nodded. "But I know enough."
Silence slipped between them. The morning air felt heavier than usual, as if unspoken words hung like cold dew on the window.
Domenico finally stood up, walking slowly toward Joey, then stopping right in front of him.
He raised a hand, as if wanting to touch the young man's cheek—but hesitated. It stopped just inches from his skin. Then, in a voice almost like a whisper, he said:
"You've grown up too fast, Joey."
Joey didn't flinch, though the look in his eyes said—it wasn't because he was afraid of being touched—but because he'd learned not to hope too much from warmth that came with wounds.
"It's not me who grew up fast," he murmured. "It's your world that aged me too early."
Domenico looked at him for a few more seconds, then lowered his hand. "You're still wearing my shirt."
Joey laughed softly, though his eyes didn't smile. "And you still enter without permission."
They looked at each other. For a moment, time seemed to freeze between two worlds that never truly merged—only intersecting at small points, like this morning.
Then, the sound of a distant car horn shattered the silence. Joey turned away first, opening the fridge and taking out a bottle of water.
"I should shower," he said, almost like an excuse.
Domenico nodded, returning to his chair. And before Joey could truly leave, the man said, "If you're tired of being the version they like on camera, you can be anything in front of me."
Joey stopped at the kitchen threshold. He didn't turn around. His voice was clear. "That's the scariest part."
*
The midday light of late February brought soft sunlight seeping through Joey's apartment window. Outside, the New York sky was still gray, but the air had warmed slightly—a sign that winter was beginning to retreat, though reluctantly.
Domenico sat relaxed on the sofa in the living room. His legs were crossed, one hand supporting his chin while his gaze was empty, following the movements of the blond young man busy in front of the small washing machine in the corner of the kitchen.
Joey wore a hoodie and sweatpants. His hair was still slightly damp after showering, and his hands were busy sorting clean clothes just out of the dryer. Some of them were underwear, but Joey didn't seem to care. He kept himself busy, perhaps intentionally avoiding too much eye contact with the man sitting behind him.
"You look too busy this afternoon," Domenico teased lightly.
Joey just shrugged. "I'm almost always busy."
Domenico laughed softly but didn't reply. He stood up from his seat—out of boredom, curiosity, or the possessive desire that always arose when surrounded by Joey's scent. His steps were slow, like a shadow. He walked into Joey's bedroom.
The room was quiet. Plain sheets, movie posters on the wall, and slanted sunlight falling on the desk. There, a drawer was slightly open. And inside—a book.
Not just any book. Domenico recognized this kind. Simple black cover, worn edges. He approached, then without thinking, picked it up.
Joey's handwritten notes. Pages filled with blue and black pen strokes, with small dates above each entry. A diary.
Domenico sat slowly on the edge of the bed, opening the first page. It was Joey's voice, a version he never allowed to be heard aloud. Short sentences. Honest. Some described fear. Some anger. Some—longing so intense it was almost painful.
Quick footsteps from the hallway startled the tranquility.
"Don't read that!" Joey shouted loudly.
Joey stood in the doorway with a burning gaze. The clothes in his hands fell to the floor. In an instant, he lunged forward.
Domenico stood up first, raising the book high above his head. One hand held it, like an older brother teasing a younger sibling trying to grab candy.
"Dom, I'm serious! Don't—that's mine!" Joey jumped, his hands trying to grab the book, but Domenico's body was too tall, too strong.
"If this is just filled with cheap poetry, why are you so defensive?" Domenico said casually, slightly mocking. His eyes looked down at Joey with a teasing expression—but his eyes were serious. As if trying to read Joey not from the writing, but from the restrained anger.
Joey used all his strength, crashing into the man's body, pushing him until they both stumbled and fell onto the bed. Joey's arm twisted, snatching the book back. He managed to pull it and immediately pressed it to his chest, as if wanting to protect it from the world.
And as Joey got up, turning to hide the book somewhere safer, a strong arm wrapped around his waist.
His body tensed instantly, like a wire struck by a small current. The grip was heavy but not painful; warm, and too familiar. Domenico's chest pressed softly against his back, the man's breath warm on Joey's neck, seeping through strands of blond hair.
Joey said nothing. He kept looking at the window, his hands still—though his chest rose and fell slowly, almost imperceptibly—as if trying to swallow a reaction too spontaneous to admit.
"Dom...," he called, "let go." His voice wasn't as firm as he intended. There was a slight tremble at the end of the sentence, not from fear—but from the part of him that was reluctant to admit that he missed this. That strange sense of safety. An embrace never asked for but always awaited.
Domenico didn't answer. He only tightened his embrace by another centimeter, and Joey—though not returning the hug—didn't try to break free, and their breaths warmed the space between them.
Joey turned his head back. His blue eyes shone—not with hatred, but with trembling. Because too many emotions mixed in that narrow space—anger, attachment, the desire to run and... the desire to stay.
Joey remained silent, but the look in his eyes spoke more than any words. He bit his lower lip gently, holding something back—anger, nervousness, or perhaps a feeling harder to define.
Domenico's arm remained there, steady, strong, and patient. He didn't urge Joey to speak, nor did he retreat. His presence was enough—heavy and real like a shadow that couldn't be chased away.
Joey finally turned around slowly, still holding the book to his chest, until they stood facing each other, so close. Their breaths touched in the thin space between them. Joey's shirt brushed lightly against Domenico's still-warm one. There was leftover breath in the room, and Joey could feel it filling his lungs.
"I don't like it when you dig into things I keep hidden," Joey whispered. "Even if it's just poetry or scribbles, it's the only place I'm honest."
Domenico looked at him deeply, those dark brown eyes not just looking—they absorbed. "Then why do you hide your honesty from me?"
Joey fell silent. His lips parted slightly, but no answer came out. Because there was no answer that could soften that gaze. No answer that could lie about the reality that he was afraid—not of Domenico, but of himself. Of the reality that he was so fragile in front of this man. Of the reality that parts of him were beginning to surrender.
"Because if you knew everything," Joey continued, his voice barely audible, "you could destroy me."
Domenico raised a hand, touching Joey's chin with warm fingers. Then he lifted the young man's face slightly, lowering his head.
"I could destroy you," he whispered, "but I don't want to."
Joey's heart raced, his breath catching for a moment. His eyes glistened, but not from sadness. Maybe from exhaustion. Maybe because he'd kept everything to himself for too long.
"Don't talk like that," Joey said, almost breathless.
"Why?"
"Because I might believe it."
For a moment, there was no sound except the ticking clock and their breaths. Then Domenico slowly slid the book from Joey's chest, lowering it gently. His eyes never left the young man's face.
When Joey finally didn't resist, didn't fight, and stopped pretending, he only closed his eyes as Domenico's lips touched his with a gentle but firm pressure—like a threat wrapped in softness. The scent of wine and tobacco filled the space between them as the kiss deepened, grew more demanding.
Joey tensed briefly, his body rejecting but his soul wavering. The touch was hot, dominating, and made him lose his footing. Domenico's hand gripped the back of his neck, pulling him closer, as if saying, you're mine—always.
Joey surrendered. His lips parted, accepting, responding with the restlessness he'd hidden for too long. There was trembling, there was hurt, but there was also a flame—one that could only burn in the dark.
.
.
[]
Have you ever fallen in love to the point of losing yourself?
LIMERENCE is a story about a quiet love, unspoken obsession, and feelings that grow too deep to escape.
The full Indonesian version is now COMPLETED on Wattpad
The story is still ONGOING on Webnovel
Exclusive extra chapters are only available on KaryaKarsa — a deeper, bolder side of the story you won't find anywhere else.
https()://karyakarsa(.)com/oishielmo
Remove () the parentheses so the link can be accessed.
Open KaryaKarsa via the web because there is an automatic translation.