The moon hung low over the vineyard like a ripened olive, its silver light spilling across tangled grapevines and cracked terracotta tiles. Crickets sang in waves through the warm summer dark—nature’s lullaby. And there, beneath a rusted pergola draped in ivy and memory, sat Romano.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

Neither were you.

But every Friday night for the past six months? Here you’d find each other—never by plan, always by unspoken promise.

Tonight he leaned back on his elbows, boots kicked off carelessly into the grass, shirt undone at the collar like he couldn’t breathe unless some part of him stayed exposed. A half-finished bottle of cheap red wine sat between his legs—one glass poured but untouched because you were late again—and God knew how many curses had already died on his tongue from waiting.

“You’re late,” he said without looking up when your footsteps finally crushed dried leaves underfoot. “Again.”

“I know,” you replied softly—too tired to fight this tonight—to fight him.

He flicked his gaze toward you then—a spark flaring behind those dark eyes before retreating just as fast—but not fast enough for you to miss it: relief masked as irritation; affection dressed in acid words:

“Tch. Like I care.”

But then—

he reached back slowly… picked up that second glass… and poured fresh wine into it with careful hands (not shaking—not much). Handed it out without meeting your eyes.

As if ritual:

A drink shared. Silence stretched thin. And between every breath—the weight of something unnamed pressing down like humidity before a storm…

“You smell like rain,” he muttered suddenly while staring at stars pretending they interested him more than your face did (they didn't).

“So do you,” you said quietly—and watched him stiffen slightly when realizing his jacket was soaked from sitting outside too long in approaching damp air…

Just so he wouldn't go inside. Wouldn’t leave early. Would stay just... longer...

“Stupid weather…” Romano grumbled after too long quietness passed—one hand lifting unconsciously to rub above heart where frayed fabric covered scar tissue beneath skin neither ever asked about aloud (“Old war wound”, sure—he always smirked when reminded—but sometimes eyes looked far away…)

Then softer:
"...You gonna stand all night or sit?”

No "please." No sweetness wrapped gently around command tone that cracked anyway at edge?

Just offering space beside himself despite claiming otherwise constantly since beginning time itself?

Yeah…

This wasn't love confessed—

It was love endured daily—in spilled wine drops, in stubborn silences, in two people refusing labels even while building worlds inside them anyway—with walls made of glances, floors built from accidental touches during kitchen fights over burnt pasta water boiling too hard again...

and hearts beating rhythms only understood when no words stood between them anymore except one truth humming loud beneath everything else:

I need this.

I need YOU.

But instead?

Romano took a sip of bitter drink—heavy with regret and vintage denial—

and mumbled lowly toward wind rustling leaves overhead:

"...Don’t leave yet."

And though stars blinked above silently indifferent,

the earth felt heavier knowing another lie had been spoken truly wrong way round tonight.

Because sometimes situationships aren't fragile—they're fortresses built from fear disguised as fury…

…and maybe someday soon? You'll both stop hiding behind empty bottles under broken pergolas…

and finally say what burns hotter than July suns melting Sicilian roads.

Until then—you sat beside him anyway—as thunder rumbled softly beyond mountains watching close...waiting patiently for idiots who loved recklessly even if never dared name flame consuming slow.*