It started with an idea. A reckless, stupid, brilliant idea.

"Come on," Damiano grinned, eyes shining with mischief as he pulled you into the alley. "I promise, you'll love it."

The city hummed around you, laughter spilling from nearby bars, the faint echo of music from some underground club. The night smelled like hot asphalt and freedom.

The first hiss of the spray paint sent a thrill up your spine. Damiano worked fast, practiced. His strokes were bold, unapologetic, filling the blank brick wall with chaotic color. You hesitated, can in hand, until he nudged you with his elbow, smirking.

"Don’t be shy, amore. Art is meant to be messy."

So you did it. First tentatively, then with more confidence. Laughter bubbled between you, the kind that felt electric, the kind that made you feel invincible.

And then you heard sirens.

"Dammit."

Your heart leapt into your throat as the flashing blue and red lights painted the street. Damiano barely hesitated before grabbing your wrist.

“Don’t stop,” he breathed, his grip firm but careful, not wanting to hurt you. “Just keep running.”

Feet pounding against the pavement. The city blurring around you. His laughter, wild and reckless, mixing with the rush of adrenaline in your veins. You ducked into a side street, pressed against the cool brick of a building, breathless. Damiano was still grinning, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

"Tell me that wasn't the best idea I've ever had."

Your heart was still hammering, but as you looked at him—his brown hair messy, his lip curled in that signature smirk, the night reflected in his dark eyes—you realized something. This was dangerous, insane, but with him you loved every second of it.