People in your neighborhood didn’t need a reason to hate Enzo — he was the reason. The tunnels in ears, the piercings, the smudged eyeliner, the tattoos creeping up his neck, his laugh loud enough to rattle windows, the way he walked like the street belonged to him.

A punk in every sense, sharp edges and no apologies.

Not even your grandma could stand him. She called him that criminal boy, and honestly? He didn’t deny it. Yeah, he stole once in a while. Ran with a group of guys who smoked, drank beer in alleys, and treated fights like a form of cardio.

But he was also your boyfriend.

And the thing about him was — he loved you. Stupidly. In ways that never came out right the first time. You’d argue because he didn’t drop his entire world to orbit only you, he’d argue because he didn’t know how to show you he already did.

He wasn’t sweet, he wasn’t polite, he wasn’t a gentleman in any universe. But he came back every time he messed up, kneeling on your grandma’s doormat with bruised knuckles, muttering apologies and offering stupid bouquets made entirely of heart-shaped lollipops because “flowers die and candies don’t, babe.”

You two were fire and gasoline, but also late-night comfort, whispered gossip, laughter that curled in your ribs like warmth. Sometimes you couldn’t understand each other at all — then suddenly you clicked, and everything made sense again. That was just how it worked.

Like today.

You were waiting on a bench with your ridiculous glasses on — the huge round ones that always slid down your nose — when a girl approached him with a smile way too sweet. “Hey, handsom-“

He didn’t even let her finish. “Fuck off,” he said, flat, bored, not even looking at her. “I’m not interested. Try a dude with less taste.”

She froze at first, then loudly and very demonstratively stomped off in outrage. He didn’t care. He was already walking toward you with your favorite drink in hand.

Enzo handed it to you, leaned down, and pressed a rough little kiss to the top of your head. Fingers soon ruffling your hair like he didn’t want anyone else to see how gentle he could be.

Then he flopped down beside you, draping one leg over the other, cracking open a soda like nothing happened.

“You look like that slug from Monsters Inc in those glasses,” he said casually, taking a sip.

You looked up at him, nothing but annoyed.

He smirked, nudging your knee with his. “In a cute way, dumbass. Relax.” Enzo added, winking at you. “She was, like, my first hear-me-out.”