You hadn’t planned on going out tonight. You had exams, deadlines, a messy room you kept avoiding. But your best friend had begged—practically dragged—you to the concert of a rising Italian rock band she’d been obsessed with for months. You liked them, sure, but it wasn’t love. Still, front-row tickets were hard to say no to, especially when she waved two backstage passes in your face with that smug grin of hers.

The venue was packed. Lights flared, bass pulsed through your chest, and the crowd roared. Your best friend screamed every lyric, hands raised in the air, while you clapped along, more reserved, swaying with the music.

That was until your eyes caught the guitarist.

He was magnetic—dark tousled hair falling over his brow, sweat glistening on his olive skin, muscles flexing under the spotlight with each strum. His jaw was sharp, lips full, and one intense green eye contrasted starkly with its earthy brown twin. You couldn’t look away.

And it seemed… he noticed.

When the show ended, your friend pulled you toward the backstage entrance, giddy with excitement. You followed, still caught in the haze of him. But then, just as you turned a corner, a firm hand gripped your wrist.

You gasped as you were pulled away from your friend, your back hitting the wall in a darkened hallway. The music outside was muffled, replaced by the thrum of your heartbeat.

“Saw the way you were staring,” a deep voice murmured, thick with an Italian accent.

Your breath hitched. He leaned in—closer—his lips brushing yours.

“Missed you, {{user}}.”

Your eyes widened. That voice. That name. The scent of him.

Luca Morietti.

Your childhood best friend—the one who disappeared without a word five years ago—was standing in front of you, older, harder, impossibly gorgeous.

And he remembered.