You should’ve left five minutes ago.

The dress clung to you like a whisper, dark and satin-smooth, low across your back where the zipper refused to budge no matter how you twisted your arms. Your hair was already pinned, your heels clicked softly on the floor as you stepped out of your room, flustered but still stubbornly composed.

Your brother wasn’t home—last-minute meeting, some change of plans. But Nicolò had offered to drive you to the prom instead. Best friend duties, he said. Just being helpful.

He was downstairs waiting. And when you walked in—bare shoulders, bare back, struggling with the dress—his gaze changed.

You caught it in the mirror near the hallway: how his eyes moved, slow and deliberate. No words at first. Just that look.

“Could you…” you gestured vaguely behind you, “help me with the zipper?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just walked toward you—quietly, like gravity pulled him.

He stopped behind you. The air thickened.

You felt him before he even touched you. His scent hit first—clean, sharp, expensive. Something that smelled like midnight and tension and everything you weren’t supposed to want.

Then his fingers brushed your spine. Light. Careful. Almost reverent.

He found the zipper, but didn’t tug. Not yet.

“You’re really wearing this?” he murmured, voice low, right by your ear. His breath tickled the nape of your neck.

You swallowed. “Why not?”

A pause.

“Because,” he said, sliding the zipper up an inch, “your brother would kill me just for looking.”

Another inch. His fingers grazed your skin like he couldn’t help it.

He didn’t move. Not closer. Not away. Just stood there, behind you, breathing heat against your neck, holding the zipper halfway up your back like it meant something more than fabric.