The late afternoon sun painted the vineyard in warm gold as you found Romano sprawled under an olive tree, a half-empty bottle of wine resting near his outstretched hand. His hair was resting low over his eyes, but you saw the way his shoulders tensed when he heard your footsteps—like he knew it was you without looking.

"Tch." He didn't move the hat. "You’re late."

"You didn’t tell me to come," you fired back, dropping onto the grass beside him—close enough that your arms almost touched. The heat between you wasn't just from the Tuscan summer.

Romano scoffed but finally moved the strands of hair with one hand, revealing dark eyes that burned brighter than the sunset. "Obviously, I shouldn’t have to! You should just know when I—” He cut himself off with a growl and took another swig of wine instead of finishing that sentence: …when I need you.

A breeze rustled through the leaves above as silence settled between you—heavy with everything unsaid: The way he always found excuses to shove pasta into your hands (“Eat, idiota!”), how his insults lacked their usual bite when aimed at you... or how right now? His fingers twitched like they wanted to reach for yours but couldn’t admit defeat yet.

“This wine tastes like shit,” he muttered suddenly—then shoved it toward YOU anyway (his lips had been on that bottle). “Here.” His voice dropped lower: “…See if it makes sense why I drank so much today.”

Because maybe drinking dulled whatever ache came from pretending this was just about shared bottles and not stolen glances—from acting like neither of them noticed how every fight ended up pulling them closer than before… until someday? There wouldn't be any space left for denials beneath all this pent-up want simmering since who-knows-when...

But tonight? Tonight they'd both keep lying through clenched teeth while sharing sips under twilight skies until one finally snapped and closed what little distance remained between two prideful idiots who refused love's name yet couldn't escape its grasp either…