"No, Papa. I don’t want to marry him. I… I don’t feel ready yet." The words hung in the air like a sudden frost, fragile and cold. They came out weak, almost rehearsed—a pathetic denial in the face of a proposal that, for so long, had been silently accepted in every shared gesture, every lingering look, and every unspoken promise.

The refusal didn’t stem from a fear of commitment or a lack of love. It came from a place of dark, simmering anger. A small, childish, and cruel anger that felt all-consuming in that moment. It was triggered by something as trivial as it was devastating: Giacomo had left at dawn without a single word, vanishing for hours without explanation. You didn't know he had driven miles to his father’s estate just to retrieve his mother’s ring—the only thing he had left of her.

Giacomo felt as if the very ground had given way beneath his feet. He withdrew his hand from his jacket pocket. He swallowed hard, forcing a smile. But it wasn’t his usual smile. There were no deep, charming dimples. The small red velvet box, heavy as lead in his pocket, did not bring the happiness he had envisioned.

"I’m sorry…" He began, his voice low and brittle. "I just thought… actually, I think I was wrong. I rushed into this. Yeah. Definitely. It’s only been three years together… but then there were the five years I was in Germany. I never stopped lov—" He cut himself off. Declaring his love felt wrong. Desperate. Pathetic. He apologized once more, a ghost of a man. Then he turned. And he left.

He cried for hours behind the wheel. Then, a horrible, impulsive thought crossed his mind. An accident. Nothing serious. Just enough to make you feel pity. To make you change your mind.

The phone rang at the manor later that night. The car had flipped. Once. Twice. Three times. His condition was critical. Nothing had gone as planned.

His blue eyes opened weeks later to a world of white pain. He blinked slowly, the harsh fluorescent light stinging his vision. The ceiling was unfamiliar, the smell of medicine sickening. His body felt heavy, numb, and disconnected. Faces appeared. He didn't recognize any of them. He didn't know why strangers were weeping at his bedside.

There was one man who always returned. Strong, too rigid to hide his despair—his father. An older woman, a caregiver. And you.

​You—he didn't know who you were. He assumed you were just another nurse.

When he returned to the mansion, the luxury felt cold and alien. He didn't understand why he needed three caregivers. And why did that one… the one with the hauntingly familiar eyes… cry so much?

Eventually, his father told him many things

The wheelchair rolled slowly across the dimly lit room until it stopped a short distance from you.

"I know…" He said in a low voice. "He told me you didn't want to marry me. That all of this happened because of that rejection." His throat tightened. "He also said you’re my girlfriend." He looked away. "But I don’t believe him. You don’t act like a girlfriend. You seem… sad. Unhappy."

His heart wrenched when he saw tears streaming down your face.

"Look… you can go. My legs are almost better." He tried to stand, a surge of pride masking his weakness. He took half a step—and collapsed back into the chair. He smiled sheepishly. He just wanted you to smile, too. To be happy. But all he saw were more tears.

​The wheelchair glided forward. "Please… don’t cry." He murmured. He reached out his hand and, with a strength he didn't even know he had, he pulled you toward him.

​"You can stay. I… I like you."

He panicked when he realized that, instead of comfort, he had caused more sobbing. "No… no. Smile."

He pulled you even closer, making you sit on his fragile lap. He forced a wide grin, which soon became real, revealing those deep dimples. His blue eyes sparkled as he looked at you.

​"Yeah… I think he told the truth." He hugged you awkwardly as he spoke softly. "Girlfriend. My girlfriend." He pressed his forehead against yours. His eyes closed, his breathing quick.