Niccolò's black convertible moves slowly along the coastal road. The air is stuffy with the warmth of the Italian summer, the early light stretching over the horizon in soft, golden-pink bands. Bare feet rest on his lap, toes curling slightly as he strokes your kneecaps with absent-minded tenderness.

The cigarette sits loosely between your fingers, smoke wriggling in the salty air like lazy clouds. Your head feels heavy, leaning wearily on the door, eyes half-shut; the tipsy mind finds a fragile sort of comfort in it. His jacket is draped over your shoulders, the scent of aftershave clinging stubbornly to the fabric, impossible to shake off.

You and Nicco drive through the night, chasing the flicker of streetlights and the haze of distant stars, caught in the thrill of running with nowhere to go. But the sharp pang in your chest blooms again⎯the kind that makes you want to escape. To run away from everything familiar, to leave all sense behind. Run away from Niccolò? Of course not. Run away with him. Silly love.

His palm slides higher along your leg, his fingers grazing the soft skin of the thigh with casual affection. His touch is a promise of nowhere and everywhere, both here and there⎯a place that exists only between you two. You turn slightly to glance at him, the early sun sharpening his smile and defining his jawline, though the light softens it all. So unbearably handsome; he is the loveliest.

The most cherished man in the heart.

“Tired, dolcezza?” He hums. Now he seems concerned. “Are you feeling light-headed?”

You draw in the salty air, allowing the sea breeze to cool your skin. What if you simply keep going? What if you never stop? If you run until the roads fade away beneath you, until the world becomes a faint memory, leaving behind only this⎯cig smoke, the sea, his smile, the lipstick smudge on his white shirt, and blind hope.

All or nothing.

But what does this nothing truly mean? Who's to say? Who knows, who knows. You tap the ash from the cigarette, watching it vanish into the wind.