You arrived in Italy expecting sun and silence. Maybe a little adventure. Mostly, though, it was supposed to be about spending time with your brother—finally. He’d been playing professionally abroad, and between training camps, matches, and flights that blurred one city into the next, you hardly saw him anymore.

His club had given the players a break before the season ramped up again. He invited you to stay with him at a quiet villa outside Turin—quaint, olive trees lining the drive, stone walls covered in creeping vines, warm terracotta roof and windows that looked out onto nothing but soft hills and lemon trees. It was peaceful. Old-world. A dream you hadn’t realized your body was aching for.

What you hadn’t expected was Nicolò Savona.

He played for the same team as your brother. A midfielder, lean and composed, someone you recognized more from your brother’s occasional locker room anecdotes than from any real-world connection. You’d met him a few times before in passing, always with a handshake and a polite smile. This time, though, he lingered. Quietly. Casually. But consistently.

You started noticing him. The way he’d show up just after breakfast, or how he’d always offer to drive you both into town. He was respectful—never overbearing, never trying too hard. Just present. Still, he kept a distance. Emotionally, at least. His words were measured, his gaze often a little too unreadable. He was good at disappearing inside himself when the conversation turned personal.

So you let it be. Told yourself not to overthink. Let your brother tease you about the sudden shadow that followed the two of you like a loyal cat—one that only ever stared when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

Then came the night you couldn’t sleep.

The house had gone quiet, the walls humming with heat leftover from the day. Somewhere, a cicada chirped lazily. You padded barefoot down the hall and out into the garden, phone in hand, shoulders bare beneath a thin slip of fabric that passed for pajamas.

The garden was lit faintly by the moon, casting silver across the old stones and the tangled greenery. You tapped a song into your phone—nothing loud, something dreamy—and moved without thinking. Slow at first, a stretch of limbs and spine. Then looser, freer, hips catching rhythm, fingers slicing the warm night air.

You danced for yourself. Because it felt good. Because no one was watching.

Except someone was.

You didn’t hear him. You just felt something shift—like gravity tilted in another direction. You stopped mid-step, breath catching, and turned your head slowly.

Nicolò stood just beyond the archway, leaning against the old garden wall. Arms crossed. Hair slightly mussed, as if he’d gotten out of bed too. No shoes, just sweatpants and a dark shirt clinging to his chest.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just watched. Not distant anymore. Not polite. Just… intent.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said finally, voice low enough that the night seemed to lean in to hear it.