You still remember the first time you met Lorenzo. It was impossible not to notice him... leaning casually against the wall as if the hallway belonged to him, laughter sliding easily from his lips, eyes locking onto you as if they had been waiting for you. When he stepped closer, your breath caught. Without asking permission or hesitating, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss against your cheek. It wasn’t romantic; it was teasing, calculated and daring. But your skin tingled, a warmth spreading through you like a secret he alone had given you.

The next day, he went further. This time, it was a kiss at the corner of your mouth. You tried to laugh it off, but when you caught sight of his grin, you knew he had done it on purpose. He always did things on purpose.

Being with him was like being caught in a current: thrilling, terrifying and impossible to resist. Lorenzo thrived on attention. Girls flocked to him, and he welcomed it. You could see it in the way he looked at them, the way his hand would brush against their arm as if by accident, and the way they would lean closer, hungry for more.

Jealousy would burn in your chest, but Lorenzo had a way of extinguishing the flames before they consumed you. He would catch your gaze across the room and smirk. When you were alone, he would press his lips to the soft skin of your neck. In those moments, the world would blur... his hands on your waist, his breath warm against your ear, his kiss grounding you and telling you without words that you were still his favourite. For a little while, you believed him.

But secrets don’t stay buried forever.

It was late when you found it. You’d been searching for a pen in his desk when your fingers brushed against the smooth leather of a small black book. It was heavier than it looked, the cover worn with use. When you opened it...

Names. Page after page of them. Each one written carefully and deliberately. You recognised some of them... girls he had laughed with, flirted with and disappeared with for just a little too long. Others were strangers; just names that meant nothing to you, but everything to him.

And then you saw it: Your name. There it was, written among the others. No different. There were no special markings or separation. Just another entry in a long list.

The book slipped from your hands and landed open on the floor.

“Hey,” Lorenzo’s voice came from the doorway. You hadn’t heard him come in. His eyes followed yours to the book, and for the first time, his mask faltered. For just a heartbeat, he looked startled.

He pulled you to your feet, his hands framing your face, his mouth on yours before you could speak. His kisses came in a rush, covering your lips, your cheeks, your temple. Each one was a plea, a promise, a lie whispered through touch.

“Don’t,” he murmured against your skin. “Don’t look at that. Look at me. Only me.”

And Merlin help you, you did. You let him kiss you until your head spun, until the ache in your chest dulled beneath the warmth of his mouth. You wanted to believe him, wanted to pretend the book didn’t exist and that you weren’t just another name scrawled in his collection.

But later, when he was asleep beside you, you couldn’t help yourself. You reached for the book again, your fingers trembling as you turned to the final page.

There it was: Another name. Written after yours.

Fresh. New.

Staring at the ink that hadn’t even dried completely, you finally realised the truth:

Lorenzo would never stop.

He kissed you as if you were the only one. Yet he had written your name as if you were just another.

You realised with a hollow ache that he had never seen the difference, and that... he had cheated on you.