“We’ve got to swing by the rink. Your brother’s practice ran late.” Your mom says.

You nod, already half-zoning out, music low on the speakers as familiar streets blur past.

When you finally pull up outside the ice arena, your brother is leaning against the entrance, sweaty hair stuck to his forehead, hockey bag at his feet. Standing next to him, casually spinning a hockey stick like it weighs nothing, is Niccoló—his best friend.

You don’t miss how he lifts his head the second he sees the car, flashing that stupidly cocky grin of his. He jogs over with your brother, his presence somehow louder than anyone else’s, even when he’s quiet.

Your brother leans into the driver’s side window. “Hey, Mum. Nic’s parents are still in Sorrento for another week. Can he crash at ours till they’re back?”

She shrugs. “Of course. He knows he’s always welcome.”

Niccoló doesn’t wait. He strides to your side of the car and pulls the door open, one arm resting along the roof, the other on the frame.

“Move over, princess,” he says, his voice low and smooth, his smirk settling beneath that sharp jaw. His heterochromic eyes flick over you—brown and ice-blue, unsettling and magnetic all at once.

———————————————

At home, you escape straight to your room, glad to be out of the cramped car. You’re barely two steps back toward your bed when a loud thud echoes just outside your room.

You yank the door open, and there he is.

Niccoló stands in the hallway, hand on the wall like he’s steadying himself from whatever chaos he just caused. He looks back at you, slightly breathless, a hint of something unreadable behind that teasing expression.

“What are you doing?” you ask, brow raised.

“Nothing, love,” he says in that lazy, soft tone—mocking, almost affectionate.

He turns to walk away, but you follow, fingers closing around his forearm.

“Come back,” you say, quieter than intended.

He stops, turning slowly. In one smooth step, you’re pressed against the hallway wall, his body close, but not touching.