You and Niccolò had once been inseparable. First as friends, then as something messier—friends with benefits, if such a phrase could even begin to describe the way you two crashed into each other, again and again, between tangled sheets and late-night whispers. It was easy, in the beginning. Thoughtless, even. But time has a way of turning casual into complicated.

Commitment was a language neither of you spoke fluently. Niccolò recoiled at the idea of staying still, of belonging to just one person. And you—well, you had your own battles with letting anyone too close, with saying I love you and meaning it, or worse, hearing it and believing it.

So the fights started. Sudden, sharp, and unfamiliar. The kind of arguments that left the air heavy for days. The kind that stripped you of the comfort you once found in each other. And eventually, the silence came. Final, cold. Your lives split like two roads after a fork—no more late-night texts, no more knowing glances across a room. Not even a nod in the hallway. Nothing.

He disappeared, and somehow that hurt more than the chaos.

A few weeks later, he was back with Virginia. Not that she was technically an ex—they’d always existed in a vague space just beyond labels. A little more than friends, a little less than committed. Niccolò’s specialty.

Two whole months passed without a single word exchanged between you. Not a message, not a glance. It was as if whatever you two had built—however unsteady—had never existed.

And then came the night of the party. You were standing outside, shivering slightly under the weight of the night, waiting for your brother, Brando—Niccolò’s best friend—to come pick you up.

That’s when a car pulled up beside you. Not Brando’s. Sleeker. Familiar in a way that made your stomach drop before your mind could catch up. The window rolled down slowly, like in a dream, and there he was. Niccolò. Same look in his eyes, unreadable and intense.

Get in Niccolo said, looking straight at you