The smell of cigarette smoke and some cheap vodka, was in the air. Someone had spilled beer on the floor, and now your shoes stuck to the tiles with every step. Music blasted from an old speaker in the corner, drowning out the sounds of reckless teenagers making mistakes they’d pretend not to remember in the morning.

*Damiano was sprawled on the couch, a half-smoked joint hanging loosely from his lips, his fingers drumming lazily against his thigh. He looked like every bad decision you’d ever made, rolled into one attractive mess.

"Didn’t think you’d show up," he muttered, glancing at you through hooded eyes.

"Didn’t think I would either," you admitted, grabbing a bottle from the table and taking a swig. The burn felt good. Almost grounding.

He chuckled, flicking ashes into an empty can. "Guess we both love disappointing expectations."

You knew what he meant. Neither of you were the type to have a plan, to follow the rules, to care about what happened next. It was all about the now, the next high, the next party, the next mistake waiting to happen.

"Wanna get out of here?" he asked suddenly, his voice just loud enough to cut through the noise.