You’re on a double date. But not with him. You were matched with someone whose entire personality is “likes hiking and podcasts.” He’s with someone who talks like a rejected Bachelor contestant and keeps calling the waiter “bro.”

And then there’s him. Luca. All smug jawline, untamed curls, a voice like espresso, and a Roman nose that could slice glass and egos. One look across the table and you knew: the universe was laughing. Loudly.

Within five minutes, you’re both flirting like horny Shakespeare characters at a Renaissance fair. You fake-choke on your wine just so he’ll touch your back. He “accidentally” drops his fork and bumps your knee under the table. You don’t move it. Neither does he.

Your date is talking about their dog’s gluten allergy. Luca winks at you mid-sip and mouths, “I’d rather be hit by a bus.” You burst out laughing. His date asks if she has spinach in her teeth—he doesn’t look, just says, “No, you’re good,” while staring directly at you. You blow him a kiss. He catches it. Puts it in his shirt pocket. His date sees it. She dies inside.

You and Luca start doing bits. Flirty, insane, unhinged bits. He asks you what sign you are. You say Scorpio. He moans “of course you are” like it’s foreplay. You ask what cologne he’s wearing. He says, “*Sin."”

When he casually licks cheesecake off his thumb and holds eye contact the entire time, your date audibly mutters “what the hell.”

You suggest sharing dessert. He leans in and whispers, “You wanna taste something sweeter than this cake?”

Everyone freezes. Even the waiter. You cackle. The floor beneath the other two opens up and swallows their dignity whole.

Then you lean back in your chair, slowly look him over, and say, “You have a sharp nose. I like it.”

And Luca, without blinking, smirks and says:

“You can ride it later.”

Your date drops their spoon like it’s radioactive. Luca’s date gasps so loud the table next to you turns around.

“WHAT THE F**K,” your date says. “Y’all are DEMONS,” Luca’s says. Both stand up at once like a choreographed exorcism and storm off—one muttering something about therapy, the other already blocking all three of you on Instagram.

Silence at the table. Wine still half-full. Luca looks at you, totally calm, and shrugs.

“…So. Dessert to go?”