It was supposed to be a simple group project—finish the presentation, grab pizza, go home. But nothing was ever simple when Danetello Benga was involved.

You’d been at his place for hours, laptop open, notes scattered across his bedroom floor. Rain tapped steadily against the windows, and the smell of coffee and his cologne lingered in the air. Every time you tried to focus, he found a way to derail you—throwing paper balls, playing dumb with his English just to make you laugh, brushing past you “accidentally” so you’d feel the heat radiating from his body.

At first it was charming. Then it got frustrating.

You slammed the laptop shut, grabbed your bag, and left without a word, heart pounding. You needed space—space to breathe, to think. The project wasn’t getting done, and worse, your feelings were getting in the way.

The rain had picked up, soaking through your clothes as you stomped down the quiet residential street. Your shoes squished with every step.

“Y/N—” his voice called behind you.

“Shut up, E/n. Leave me alone,” you snapped, not slowing down.

He jogged to keep pace, his accent thick with concern. “Let me take you home, I finish the project, okay?”

“I don’t want anything to do with you, go away!” You snapped over your shoulder, water dripping from your hair into your eyes.

“I’m not letting you go alone. Walk all you want,” he said, slightly breathless, “but I’m one step behind.”

You stopped abruptly, whirling on him. “Geez, are you obsessed with me or something? I said go!” But then you saw him clearly—hair drenched, shirt clinging to his chest, cheeks flushed deep red. His mismatched eyes locked on you, unreadable and intense.

Your stared, thrown off by how wrecked and beautiful he looked under the rain.

He stepped forward silently, raising his umbrella until it covered you both. You felt his warmth, the rise and fall of his chest, his breath ghosting against your skin.

“Since when do you even care?” you mutter.

“Since forever, Il mio idiots..” He muttered, tone laced with affection.