The bar was dim, bathed in amber light and steeped in the low hum of late-night jazz and clinking glasses. It smelled like old wood, whiskey, and too many bad decisions. You sat alone, legs crossed at the high stool, swirling your drink absentmindedly while the soft fabric of your backless black dress clung to your skin. The exposed ink tracing your spine peeked out like a secret begging to be read.

“Nice tattoo,” a voice said, thick with smug confidence.

You didn’t bother hiding the sigh. It was always the tattoo.

You turned, offering the same polite, deadpan smile you reserved for nights like this. “Thanks.”

He was tall, all cheap cologne and expensive arrogance, his button-up shirt half-unbuttoned to show off a sunless tan. You turned back to your drink, hoping he’d take the hint. He didn’t.

He slid onto the stool beside you, elbow on the bar like he owned it. “Let me buy you a drink.”

“No thanks,” you replied coolly. “I was about to leave.”

But he leaned in, a smirk playing on his lips as his hand casually drifted toward your thigh.

“You should stay a little longer,” he murmured, “so we can get to know each other.”

You pushed off the stool, heels clicking on the tile. “Going to the bathroom.”

But you didn’t get far.

The front door groaned open, and the sound of a revving engine outside echoed just before it slammed shut again. The air shifted.

He stood at the entrance of the bar. His bike helmet dangled from one hand. The room tensed, though most didn’t know why. But you did.

Your heart skipped.

Lorenzo Moretti.

Your enemy.

The boy who once hated you enough to vanish. And the man who somehow always found you when it mattered most.