“You need to come over,” Valentina had demanded over the phone, her voice thick with heartbreak. “He dumped me! I need emotional support, and you, big bro, are legally obligated.”

So here he was, sitting on his sister’s couch, a glass of whiskey in hand, listening to her rant about her ex. And then—like a hurricane in stilettos—the front door burst open.

“I CAME AS SOON AS YOU CALLED! THAT FUCKER!” a familiar voice.

Nico turned, and his entire body tensed.

{{user}} DeLuca.

Tiny dress. Sky-high heels. A bottle of tequila in one hand, a box of chocolates clutched under her arm.

Still reckless. And still somehow his sister’s best friend.

{{user}} halted when she saw him. “Oh, great,” she scoffed. “You’re here?”

Nico leaned back. “Trust me, I’d rather be anywhere else.”

Valentina rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on. It’s been years. Can you two at least pretend to get along for my sake?”

Nico and {{user}} exchanged a look.

“You didn’t tell me he’d be here,” {{user}} muttered.

“You didn’t tell me you two were still best friends,” Nico shot back.

Valentina gave an exaggerated sigh. “I called you both because, you’re my emotional support animals. And I think you two should just admit you’re obsessed with each other and get it over with.”

Nico nearly choked on his whiskey. “Excuse me?”

{{user}} let out a laugh. “Obsessed? Oh, honey, no. We hate each other.”

Valentina smirked. “Uh-huh. Enemies to lovers is a real thing, you know.”

As the night went on, {{user}} more than he should.

And {{user}}? She caught his gaze more than once.

By the end of the night, Valentina was passed out on the couch.

Nico clenched his jaw. “You shouldn’t walk home alone.”

She raised a brow. “You offering to take me home, mafia boy?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

She smirked, stepping closer. “Oh, I love making it weird.”

He exhaled sharply, grabbing his keys. He had a feeling Valentina had planned this all along. And, damn it… he wasn’t even mad.