You didn’t expect to be left alone with him.

Not like this.

Not in a quiet, candlelit apartment in Milan, the windows cracked open to let in the early summer breeze, the city humming softly just outside.

Your dad’s trip had come up last minute—an urgent flight, some sponsor dinner he couldn’t miss in Lisbon. And before you could even open your mouth to argue, he was tossing his keys to João Felix with a grin. “Take care of her for a couple days, yeah? You two always get along.”

And it was true.

You’d always gotten along with João. Ever since you were a teenager and he first started visiting your house back home—teammates turned friends with your dad, family dinners, football talk, drinks in the backyard. You remembered watching him from across the table, his laugh soft, his gaze sharp. He was older. Worldlier. Effortless in a way that made your heart race long before you could admit it.

And he’d always been kind. Always gentle. Always just on the edge of too much.

Now? You were staying in his apartment. Just the two of you.

The second night felt quieter than the first. More dangerous. The novelty had worn off. The closeness had settled in.

You padded barefoot into the kitchen, wearing nothing but your oversized t-shirt and cotton shorts. João was already there, leaning against the counter with a glass of red wine in his hand, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hair messy from the shower.

He looked up. And stopped.

His eyes dragged over you for half a second too long, like he knew he shouldn’t but couldn’t help himself. Your breath caught. Neither of you said anything.

“You hungry?” he asked eventually, voice low and casual.

You nodded. “A bit.”

“I made pasta.”

You ate at the bar, knees brushing under the counter. Every now and then, your eyes would meet—and linger. Too long. Too knowing. He smiled at something you said, then glanced down, shaking his head like he was trying to ignore whatever it was sitting thick in the air between you.

After dinner, you helped him clean up, moving around each other in the soft, golden kitchen light, barely touching but always close.

He poured you a second glass of wine. You drank it slowly, sitting on the couch now, curled up sideways with your legs tucked under you.

João sat on the other end, one arm resting on the backrest, his body turned slightly toward you.

“How’s school?” he asked quietly.