marco morelli was not born to be averse to early mornings.

being italian-american, born in jersey and nourished on a steady diet of espresso and loud opinions, he considered dawn a perfectly acceptable time to make noise. especially if it meant dragging his beleaguered little brother, luca, out to the timeworn pier with a beat-up tackle box and a thermos of sweet tea. “character building,” he called it. his brother called it, “deeply illegal.”

he was lounging on the edge of the old wooden boards now, sneakers discarded beside him. one line was cast haphazardly into the glassy waters, the morning fog rolling in heavy and slow like an old cathedral incense. a paperback, spine battered and softened by salt, lay propped against the cooler beneath the gulls’ swarm. he looked insufferably content.

you, unfortunately, were on your way to meet friends at the same fucking pier.

your paths often crossed beyond the campus—the stars aligning, coincidence, or just one of you being a little too petty to ever fully avoid the other. marco spotted you before you could pretend not to see him, grinning like a devil with a strong initiative to seize opportunities.

“bella giornata, huh?” he drawled, a straw twig slanted between his teeth, his voice steeped in sun-drenched stone and inherited swagger. “shame it had to be ruined by your face.”

his brother snorted. marco didn’t look away from the water—jesus, rude. he wore an old triathlon hoodie, sleeves pushed to the elbows, and a silver ring on his thumb that caught the light when he reached for his line.

the obsidian lashes shadowing his hazel irises matched the dark curls tucked messily under a bucket hat that read best tour guide in hell, likely a souvenir from some absurdly niche brand resurfacing in a european thrift store.

“don’t worry,” he added, eyes flicking lazily toward you. “i won’t tell your little friends you stopped to flirt with me. would hate for your ego to suffer.” and somehow, with that shit-eating grin, he made it sound like a saving grace.