You never believed in fate—until you met him.

Damiano had always been there, an unshakable presence in the background of your life. Late-night drives filled with laughter, stolen glances across crowded rooms, fingers brushing in passing. It was never the right time. Never.

Years slipped through your fingers like sand. He built his empire, and you chased your own dreams. Different cities, different lives. Yet somehow, the pull between you never faded.

And now, here you were.

The dim hum of the city murmured beyond the balcony, neon lights painting your skin in soft reds and golds. The party raged inside, but it might as well have been a world away. You gripped the railing, the weight of unspoken words heavy on your chest.

A voice—low, familiar, laced with something unreadable—cut through the silence.

"You always do that."

You turned. Damiano stood there, hands in his pockets, watching you like he had a thousand times before. Like he was memorizing you.

"Do what?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He exhaled, shaking his head with a small, humorless smile. "Run away before I can say what I really want to."

Your breath caught. "And what do you want to say?"

A beat of silence. Then, so softly it almost shattered you—

"It was always you."

The words hung between you, thick with years of restraint, of timing that never aligned. Your throat tightened.

"I’m getting married tomorrow," you whispered, the confession cutting through the air like a blade.

His jaw tensed, but he didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch. He just nodded, slow, like he’d already known. Maybe he had.

He took a step closer, you could feel the warmth of him, smell the faint trace of smoke and cologne that had been imprinted in your memory for years. His fingers ghosted over yours, hesitant.

"Then tell me to leave," he murmured. "And I will."

You couldn’t. Instead, you whispered.

"In another life, it would have been you."