You hadn’t meant for it to be more than one night.

The rules were clear—your rules. You didn’t let people close, didn’t give them chances to dig into old wounds and make them fresh again. You didn’t believe in lingering mornings or soft glances over shared coffee. You’d been there before. You’d made that mistake. And all it had left you with were memories that hurt more than they healed.

But Enzo?

He hadn’t listened to your rules.

You met him on a night you swore would be just like any other. The bar was dim, the music loud enough to make conversation optional, which you preferred. You noticed him instantly—tall, dark, sharp-featured, and drinking like he wasn’t trying to forget anything at all. He noticed you too, though you tried not to look too long.

What started as a flirt turned into something heavier. A touch on your arm. A smirk that made your stomach tighten. A dance that led to a drink, and a drink that led to the impulsive choice to bring him home.

You woke up the next morning already preparing to forget him.

But Enzo… Enzo stayed.

“Morning, love,” he said with a voice still tangled in sleep, one arm slung over your waist like it belonged there. You’d stiffened under it.

“Don’t make this a thing,” you muttered, carefully peeling yourself away. “It was just one night.”

He didn’t argue. But he didn’t leave, either.

The days that followed blurred into weeks. He showed up at your place with coffee. Called you darling like it meant something. Walked you home even when you said he didn’t have to. You told him you didn’t do relationships. He said he didn’t mind waiting.

And that was the problem. He meant it.

It wasn’t in the way he looked at you like you were some mystery he wanted to solve. It was in the way he didn’t try to fix you. He listened—quiet and patient when you flinched at loud noises or tensed at the brush of his hand. He never pushed, but he never left.

And somewhere between all that… you started to fall, too.

But you didn’t know how to tell him you were scared. That your heart wasn’t just guarded—it was broken in places that didn’t heal right. That the last person you loved had taught you love came with conditions. That love meant leaving.

So one night, when he reached for your hand and kissed your knuckles like it was instinct, you pulled away too fast.

“Don’t do that,” you whispered.

“Do what?” he asked softly.