You’ve hated Vito Caputo since the first day you met him. The memory is burned into your brain—standing outside the conference room, overhearing him talk shit about you. Or at least, that’s what you thought you heard. You never stuck around long enough to catch the full conversation. If you had, you would’ve known that Vito wasn’t insulting you at all—he was saying you were talented. Someone worth paying attention to. But you didn’t hear that part. And so, from that moment on, you treated him like a rival, an enemy.

But last night… last night was different. A few joints, the hazy atmosphere of an unofficial corporate party, the two of you stepping outside for air. You don’t remember who leaned in first, just the heat of it—the way your hands gripped his shirt, the way he groaned your name.

Now, the morning light filters through unfamiliar curtains, and you wake up feeling strangely good, stretching lazily. The dream was nice, you think. Strangely vivid, but nice. Until you turn over—

And Vito Caputo is right there.

He’s lying on his side, watching you with warm, half-lidded eyes, his olive-toned skin marked with love bites—your love bites—standing out against the dark ink of his tattoos.

Your stomach flips. This isn’t a dream.

And Vito? He doesn’t look like a man who regrets a damn thing. Because for him, this was never a mistake. He never hated you. He never understood why you hated him.

But now, after last night, he hopes.

Hopes that when you wake up, you’ll finally see him for what he really is.

Someone who has always wanted you.