Calafiori’s house smelled like espresso and summer — warm wood floors, citrus-scented laundry, the faint musk of old cologne that lingered in the hallway like a memory.

You padded barefoot into the kitchen, oversized T-shirt swaying against your legs, the one you stole from your brother last Christmas and never gave back. You were here for the holidays — again — just like always. But something about this time felt different.

Maybe because your brother was gone.

Maybe because he was here instead.

Riccardo Calafiori.

Your brother’s best friend. The boy who used to flick water at you in the pool and call you pest in three different languages. Who used to ruffle your hair like you were five, tease you mercilessly, and then quietly untangle your shoelaces when they got stuck in the garden gate.

He wasn’t supposed to look like that now.

He wasn’t supposed to answer the door yesterday with sleepy eyes and damp curls, shirtless and still yawning, like he hadn’t realized you weren’t twelve anymore.

He wasn’t supposed to make your heart skip when he smiled.

But he did.

And now you were here. Alone with him. Because your brother had an away game, and Riccardo had offered — insisted, really — that you still come stay. Said it wouldn’t be a problem. Said he’d “keep an eye on you.”

You opened the fridge.

“Still not a morning person, huh?” came the voice from behind you — low, amused, with just enough rasp to make your spine straighten.

You turned around, blinking.

Riccardo stood in the doorway, sweatpants slung low on his hips, shirt halfway on, towel draped around his neck. He’d clearly just come from a run — flushed cheeks, damp hair, that post-workout glow that should be illegal.