Rain tapped lightly against the windowpane of the small café tucked along a cobbled Bologna street. Remo sat in the corner booth, fingers curled around a warm espresso, his eyes drifting lazily outside—until they landed on you.

He smiled—not wide, but sincere, the kind of smile that said more than it let on.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” he murmured, voice low and calm as you slid into the seat across from him. “But then again… you’ve always had a way of showing up exactly when I need you.”

He leaned back, studying your expression like he was reading a map. “You know, for all the structure football gives my life—schedules, systems, precision—I never expected anything unpredictable to feel good. Then you came along.”

He paused, gaze lingering.

“I don’t need grand gestures. Just… this. You. A few honest moments, and the space to say things I usually keep to myself.”

A hint of amusement flickered in his eyes as he added, “You’re dangerous, you know? In the best possible way.”

And just like that, the quiet between you wasn’t silence—it was possibility.