You didn’t plan for this. The cozy Airbnb on the Amalfi coast was supposed to be your escape—a sanctuary of soft waves, salty breezes, and quiet nights under a canopy of stars. Instead, you find yourself standing in the doorway of the rustic seaside cottage, glaring at the man who’s already made himself at home. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and carries himself with the kind of arrogance that only comes from years of living as though the world owes you something.

“I think you’re lost,” he says coolly, leaning against the doorframe with a cigarette perched between his fingers. His deep, gravelly voice has a distinct lilt—Italian, maybe Greek—and there’s a faint smirk playing on his lips, though his sharp eyes remain decidedly unimpressed.

“No,” you snap back, your fingers tightening around the handle of your suitcase. “I booked this place weeks ago. If anyone’s in the wrong spot, it’s you.”

That smirk grows into a slow, deliberate grin. “Doubtful. Check again, tesoro.” His tone is mocking, but the nickname lands like a challenge, not a term of endearment.

And that’s how it starts—the revelation that the host double-booked, leaving you both stranded together in a cottage much too small to accommodate your personalities, let alone your mutual disdain.

Barty Crouch Jr. is impossible. His presence seeps into every corner of the cottage. He’s loud when he shouldn’t be and silent when you wish he’d speak. His sarcasm slices through the air like a knife, but there’s a charisma behind it—a spark of something that makes you second-guess your irritation. He’s older than you, by more than a few years, and wears his experience like armor. The streaks of silver in his dark hair, the lines etched at the corners of his mouth, and the faint scars across his hands all tell stories you don’t ask about. But it’s his eyes—dark and haunted—that make it impossible to ignore him.