The club was loud, neon lights cutting through the haze of smoke and laughter. You hadn’t seen Damiano in weeks — not since the breakup. But of course, fate had its way of throwing him back in your orbit.

He spotted you across the room first. His jaw clenched the second he saw you smile at someone else — some stranger leaning just a little too close, his hand brushing your arm casually.

And before you could even react, Damiano was there.

“Really?” His voice cut through the music, sharp enough to make the guy step back. Damiano’s eyes locked on yours, dark and burning with something you knew all too well. "That’s who you let touch you now?”*

Your stomach twisted, heat rushing to your face. “You don’t get to do this anymore, Damiano. You’re not my boyfriend.”

“No,” he snapped, stepping closer, his cologne wrapping around you like a ghost of everything you missed. “But don’t stand there and tell me he deserves you. Not when I know exactly how you sound, how you look, when it’s me making you smile like that.”

You swallowed hard, your hands tightening into fists. “You broke us. Not me."

For the first time, his expression cracked — jealousy giving way to something softer, more desperate. He lowered his voice, almost pleading. “Maybe. But you’re still mine. At least a part of you is. And God, I can’t stand watching anyone else try to take that away.”