Romina and Fiore hit it off right away.
I watch them while munching on an olive ascolana, as they dive into some delirious talk about contemporary art. Fiore clearly knows his stuff, and that fires up Romina’s brain — she’s been talking non-stop for a good twenty minutes now.
I just sit there, spaced out, feeling like the third wheel on a date I didn’t know I was on.

I can’t help checking out Fiore’s outfit again.
A slim-fit tank top under an oversized fishnet sweater, high-waisted trousers in some light, elegant fabric, and sneakers. All black, of course — perfect contrast to his pale skin and platinum hair. Two steel necklaces, different lengths. One small star earring.
I bite into another olive, slightly annoyed. I think I’m jealous of how good clothes look on him. Yeah, that’s what’s been buzzing in the back of my head.

“How about I throw a couple of frozen pizzas in?” I ask, dragging myself up from the chair I’ve sunk into.

“Go for it, vez,” chirps Romina, before jumping straight back into her monologue about Comedian by Maurizio Cattelan.

“As I was saying, that’s what I love about contemporary art: it’s just a banana taped to a wall, but isn’t the whole point of art to communicate an idea through a medium? However controversial the piece might be. Art has always shocked, through the centuries.”

I smirk to myself as I switch on the oven, my back turned to them.
If we’re talking Cattelan, then by the script, this is where the move happens: inviting him to the Venice Biennale or some fancy museum.
I crouch down to dig through the freezer, waiting for the punchline. But it doesn’t come.

At some point, Fiore’s phone rings.
“Excuse me a sec, Romina,” he says, politely cutting through her waterfall of words. “I really have to take this call.”
And he disappears into the living room.

I glance at my best friend with a mischievous grin.
“Well? Aren’t you gonna make the move?” I whisper, keeping my voice low.

She huffs, flushed from the wine and from talking so much.
“Yeah, right! He’s only listening out of politeness.”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” I reply bluntly.

She rests a hand on my shoulder, confident.
“My radar, remember? Fiore is a twenty out of ten, okay. But all he did was look at you while I was talking. He wasn’t really listening to me at all.”

“That’s not true. I didn’t notice anything,” I say, staring at her, confused.

She smiles at me, a little exasperated, a little maternal.
“Milo, I love you. But when it comes to this stuff, you are painfully, painfully slow.” She strokes my cheek.

At that moment, Fiore appears at the door.

“Milo, can I smoke on the balcony?”

“Uh… yeah!” I stammer, caught off guard. How much of this conversation did he hear?
“Wait, I’ll get you an ashtray.”
I fill a disposable cup with a little water, and Romina motions for me to go.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on the pizzas.” As if they could actually run away from the oven.

Walking through the living room, I reach Fiore on the tiny balcony.
He lights a cigarette calmly, his slender fingers moving gracefully, the black nail polish catching the light.
Then he looks at me: a gaze dense, deeper than usual.
My heart skips a beat as the sunset frames him, creating a dreamlike picture.

“I’ll just… leave the ashtray here,” I mutter, breaking eye contact and setting the cup on the tiny balcony table. Then I let myself slide down against the railing, next to him.

We stay like that for a while, side by side, as he smokes and the evening grows darker, the cloud-heavy sky turning more and more threatening. The air hangs still, almost heavy.

“Earlier…” Fiore suddenly breaks the silence, tilting his head toward me.

“That call was from the Council.”

I whip around. “Was it Diamante?”

“No.” He hesitates for a moment, as if tempted to say more, then bites his tongue.

“A councilor from the Lodge.”

“And?” I press.

“There might be news. They want us at the Council tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Sounds urgent…”

Fiore clicks his tongue, disdainful.

“If it were urgent, they’d already be here dragging you away.” He takes a slow drag from his cigarette.

I study him for a moment. “Why does it bother you so much? The Council, the factions…”

“I have my reasons,” he replies, exhaling smoke and staring straight ahead, coldly. Then he looks back at me. “Just settle for this, for now.”

I squint, torn between pushing further or holding back.
“I still have a hundred thousand questions. Can we meet just for that, one of these days?”

Fiore flicks the cigarette butt into the ashtray.
“I’ve got a few questions for you too,” he says, lowering his voice as he steps closer — too close — and his floral scent mixed with smoke hits me. A strangely dizzying combination.

“What kind?” I stammer, struggling with the closeness.

Fiore smirks sideways.
“The kind: why are you on a dating app? If you are looking for some fun, just say so…” The words brush my ear like a blade.

I jump back, my heart hammering.
“Stop. It’s not funny. You’re making me uncomfortable.”

“Sorry.” He raises his hands like he’s under arrest. He says it casually, yet his eyes flash with something I can’t place.

I have to breathe. It’s just Fiore playing. Calm down. But wait…

“How do you know I’m on a dating app?” I point at him, inquisitive. “Are you still stalking me?”

He just pulls out his phone and shrugs.
“Because I’m on it too. Spotted your profile. That’s why I’m saying… while we’re at it…”

I smack his shoulder to shut him up.

“Kidding!” he laughs, trying to fend me off.

I start to head inside, but can’t help looking back.
“While you were at it, you could’ve tried liking me. Maybe we’d have matched. But now you’ll never know.”

“Oh…” His expression lights up, almost like a challenge. “Message received.”

“Not that it’s an invitation!” I snap and head back inside, my face burning.

Behind us, the black sky rumbles with heavy thunder, and the air itself seems to be holding its breath.