You decided to stay at your dad’s best friend’s house—Dario. He was everything your father wasn’t: calm, composed, and maddeningly attractive. With your parents going through a messy divorce, the chaos at home had become too much to handle.

It was late at night, and sleep wouldn’t come. Restless, you wandered through Dario’s quiet house, barefoot on the cold floor, drawn by the soft crackle of the fireplace.

You found him there, standing with his back to you, a cigarette between his fingers, the glow of the fire casting shadows across his tattooed skin.

You blinked.

Tattoos sprawled across his back and arms—inked stories you had never seen before. You stepped forward, hesitant but curious. Your fingers reached out, just about to trace the markings along his spine.

Then he turned.

In one swift motion, he flicked the cigarette behind his back, eyes narrowing slightly when he saw you.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, gaze dropping. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Your eyes landed on a tattoo just above his heart.

Your fingers moved before you could stop them, brushing lightly over the inked letters.

He flinched.

His abs tensed under your touch, but then his hand wrapped gently but firmly around yours, stilling it.

Silence.

Then, his voice—low and rough—cut through the stillness.

“You’re supposed to be in bed, mia cara.”

You looked up at him, heart racing.

“…Why is my name on you?” you asked, barely above a whisper.