The villa looked like something stolen out of a dream — carved into the cliffs just above the Amalfi coast, all sun-warmed stone and tangled wisteria, with windows that stretched tall and arched like something holy. It was too much and just enough. Quiet. Golden. The kind of place where time didn’t feel real.

You and Lily-Rose had planned the trip for months. Just the two of you — a celebration of turning twenty-one, of being grown, of wanting something beautiful. The villa was supposed to be filled with laughter and chaos, with your parents and hers sitting around long wooden tables, telling old stories, refilling each other’s glasses.

But Vanessa had cancelled last minute — some project in Paris she couldn’t delay, but you and Lily knows that she only made that up because of Johnny being here — and your mother had decided not to come if her best friend wasn’t going to be there. It made sense in that quiet, unspoken way moms had. And then, just a few days before the flight, your father had to back out too — a flare-up in his back, the kind that made long flights impossible. You’d kissed him on the forehead at the airport anyway, told him you’d send a postcard.

So it ended up being just you, Lily-Rose, Jack… and Johnny.

And now, tonight — the first night — you were alone.

It had started harmlessly enough. A little wine on the terrace at sunset, the sky bruised peach and lavender. Lily-Rose, draped across the cushioned patio seat in her sundress, declaring it was your “first legal drink,” even though you both knew better. Johnny had laughed lowly, raising his glass in mock solemnity.

“Right,” he drawled. “Totally your first. Never had a sip before this moment. Ever.”

His tone was teasing, but his smile — that slow, sideways thing — made your stomach flutter.

By the third glass, Jack had retreated upstairs to bed. And Lily, always one to go all in, got a little too drunk a little too fast. She tried to sit down and missed the couch entirely, dissolving into giggles on the floor.

Johnny caught her before she could knock anything over. He didn’t say anything sarcastic, just lifted her in his arms with ease. “Alright, party girl,” he murmured. “That’s enough for one night.”

You watched them disappear up the stairs, glass in hand, skin warm from wine and sun. The house was quiet again. The shadows longer. Your chest ached in that familiar way it always did when you watched him — a feeling that had lived in you since you were seventeen and tried to ignore how good he looked lighting a cigarette with one hand and brushing his hair back with the other.

When he came back down, his hair was a little tousled and his voice was lower, like the night had settled into him too. He found you in the kitchen, still barefoot, still leaning against the counter with your glass half full.

“She’s out cold,” he said, standing too close — or maybe not close enough. “Didn’t even get to the bed. I just dropped her like a sack of potatoes.”

You laughed softly. “She’ll thank you in the morning.”

He didn’t move away. Just leaned one elbow on the island, eyes trailing over your face like he hadn’t really looked at you until now.

There was a stretch of silence. Not awkward — just full.

Then: “You’ve grown up.” His voice was softer than before, slower.

You glanced up at him. Your pulse thudded somewhere deep in your chest. “Too much?”

Johnny smiled. Not quite playful this time. “Just enough to make this feel dangerous.”

And there it was — the shift. The click. The breath you didn’t know you’d been holding slipping out quietly.