୧ 𝓡ＩＣＣＡＲＤＯ ＣＡＬＡＦＩＯＲＩ

THE LOFT WAS QUIET, DUSK LIGHT SPILLING ACROSS THE MARBLE FLOOR, GLOWING OFF THE DARK WOOD FURNITURE. The faint scent of his cologne — citrus, leather, something impossibly Italian — mixed with the warmth of the evening air and the faint smoke from the candle you hadn’t noticed lighting. Outside, the city hummed softly, distant and irrelevant, as if the world had shrunk to just the two of you.

Riccardo moved with deliberate grace in the kitchen, the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled up to reveal the tattoos along his arms. Muscles flexed subtly with each motion, yet there was something infinitely gentle in the way he stirred the sauce, his long hair brushing his shoulders, the tired lines around his eyes making him look more… real.

You leaned against the marble counter, smiling as he glanced over. “Pass me the basil,” he murmured, and when your fingers brushed, the touch was fleeting but electric. You laughed softly, shaking your head as he grinned, that charming smirk that seemed to belong to another era — old money, old world, yet entirely present.

The two of you moved together in the quiet dance of cooking — chopping, stirring, tasting, teasing. Even the simplest gestures became intimate: a hand brushing yours reaching for olive oil, his shoulder brushing past you, laughter when a piece of pasta clung to the pot. In that loft, with golden light catching the curve of his jaw and the faint scent of citrus and leather lingering, it was just the two of you, suspended in a perfect, real moment

@𝓜𝐑𝐒𝐑𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒𝐒