He doesn’t get it.

Niccolo doesn’t understand why he doesn’t hate you—his enemy. A shy one at that.

“It’s freezing,” he says bluntly as he drapes his fuzzy grey North Face jacket over your shoulders. His expression was ever so stoic, yet his tone was a tad softer than usual; a tone reserved for you. “You’ll catch a cold.”

The Party teeming, the party on full blast. He tugs the lapels of the jacket, making sure you’re warming up. He’d never admit that you’re his soft spot, though. Never.