The bass was shaking the floor, neon lights dancing across sweat-slicked skin and glittering drinks. You weren’t drunk, exactly — but you were definitely tipsy. Tipsy enough for your mouth to move faster than your brain. Tipsy enough to let your eyes linger on Damiano.

He looked unfair under the violet glow, back against the wall with a drink in hand and that lazy, cocky smile like he knew every thought crawling through your mind. His shirt clung a little too perfectly. His chains glinted when he turned his head.

You made your way over, pretending not to notice the way he straightened just slightly when he saw you coming.

“You look like trouble,” he said, eyes scanning your face — too amused, too curious.

You laughed, a little breathless. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this,” you blurted, stepping a bit closer, the crowd and music giving you courage, “but I’ve had a couple drinks and— oh my God.”

You covered your face with your hand, but he reached out and gently pulled it away, his fingertips brushing your wrist.

“And what?” he asked, low. “Don’t stop now.”

You swallowed. The words were there, pushing at the back of your throat, reckless and real. "I dream about you. About your hands. About things I shouldn’t say out loud in front of strangers."