You and your enemy had always butted heads—sharp words, cold glares, that constant push-and-pull—but your mothers? They were inseparable. The kind of friendship that had lasted decades, through every move, every messy chapter. You’d grown up around each other, whether you liked it or not.

That evening, his mum had invited you over for dinner. The house smelled like simmering tomatoes and fresh basil, something rich and comforting bubbling on the stove. The clatter of plates and soft Italian music filled the space as she bustled around in an apron, waving a wooden spoon.

“{{user}}, tesoro,” she said with a smile, “can you go get my son, please? Dinner’s ready. He’s probably glued to his phone again.”

You nodded, brushing your hands on your jeans and slipping out of the warm kitchen. The hallway upstairs was quieter, a little darker, lined with old family photos and that faint smell of cologne that always lingered around him.

You reached his door and knocked gently.

“Emanuele?” you called, waiting. Silence.

You knocked again, louder this time. “E? Your mum said dinner’s ready.”

Still nothing.

You hesitated for a moment before your hand reached for the handle. The door creaked open slowly.

And there he was—on his bed, half-reclined against the pillows, lips locked with some girl who looked just as startled to see you.

But what made you pause wasn’t the kissing—it was the look on his face. His hands weren’t gripping her waist; they were stiff, hovering awkwardly. His eyes flicked open the moment he heard the door and met yours. Wide. Uneasy.

He looked… uncomfortable. Not just surprised. Like he’d been caught in something he didn’t even want to be part of.

The girl turned, clearly flustered, tugging her shirt down as she moved to sit up. But you stayed frozen in the doorway, something sharp and strange curling in your chest.

“Your mum says dinner’s ready,” you said quietly.

And then you closed the door.