You shouldn’t have felt that way. Not about him. Not when he was with her.

Damiano had been your best friend’s boyfriend for months now. You watched them get together, watched her blush whenever he smiled, listened to her gush about how he was different, how he wasn’t like the others. And maybe that should’ve been true. Maybe he shouldn’t have been like the others. But the way he looked at you said otherwise.

It started subtly—lingering glances when she wasn’t looking, hands brushing against yours just a second too long, inside jokes meant only for the two of you. You told yourself it was nothing. That it had to be nothing. But then nothing turned into stolen moments, hushed words, a tension that neither of you dared to name.

Until tonight.

You were at some party, your best friend lost somewhere in the crowd, and Damiano was standing way too close. His fingers ghosted over your wrist as he leaned in, voice low, warm against your skin.

"Tell me to stop."

You should have. God, you should have. But his hand was already on your waist, and your breath hitched before you could form a sentence.

"You’re hers," you whispered, but your voice lacked conviction.

Damiano exhaled sharply, his grip tightening slighly. "I don’t want to be."