*Camille*

I took another sip of cider, watching him over the rim of my glass.
Daniele had this… thing.
Not just the stupidly perfect bone structure or the effortless charm, but the way he didn't try. He’d mastered the art of making you come to him.

The air was still vibrating from what he’d just told me— It was a heavy gift to give to a stranger, and I could see the moment he started to regret it. He was retreating, pulling that "bad boy" mask back over his face like armor.

I decided to let him. I wasn’t going to let the night drown in gravity just yet.

“What about your other tattoos?” I asked, nodding at the ones coiled under his rolled sleeve. “Let me guess… barbed wire, but make it deep?”

He scoffed and rolled his wrist to show the full design. “Microphone cord. Twisted like a snake.”

“Subtle.”

“You asked.”

I reached across the table, fingertips grazing the air just above his skin. “So do I get to inspect the art, or is there a ‘look, don’t touch’ policy?”

His gaze dropped to my hand.
“Touch all you want,” he said, voice low. “Just know I’m not liable for the consequences.”

My pulse flickered.

God, he was infuriating.
And stupidly hot.

“You always flirt like this?” I asked, leaning back to mask the effect he was having on me.

“Like what?”

“Like your ego’s on a performance bonus.”

He laughed—sharp, easy. “Only when I’m getting paid for it.”

I paused. “Wait—what?”

He waved a hand, reaching for his drink. “Forget it. Bad joke.”

But his tone had a hitch—too casual, too quick. A tiny alarm bell rang in the back of my skull. I shoved it down. Probably just some dumb reference to dating apps. Except… there was that barista who’d stared a beat too long, the way he’d joked about getting recognized earlier.Maybe he wasn’t joking at all.

I didn’t ask. Some instincts are better left unsaid—at least for now.

He stood abruptly, tossing back the rest of his whiskey. “Let’s walk.”

“In the rain?” I raised a brow.

“Especially in the rain. New York’s only half itself when it’s dry.”

“Pitié...” I groaned. “Tell me you’re not one of those artistic souls who thinks rain is metaphorical.”

He held the door open, the rain glazing his jacket. He looked as though he’d stepped off a movie poster—the lead actor who didn't even know the cameras were rolling.

“Worse,” he said, grinning. “I write love songs and pretend they’re not about anyone.”

I rolled my eyes—but followed him anyway.
And the worst part?

I was already smiling.

*Daniele*

Outside, the air had that early spring bite. I shoved my hands into my pockets, suddenly hyper-aware of how much I’d just spilled back there. The silence between us felt different now—heavier. I usually kept my cards pressed so tight to my chest they left marks, but with her, I’d practically laid them all on the table before the first drink was even finished.

I needed to figure out if she was actually as oblivious as she seemed, or if I was just a moron who’d been charmed by a pretty accent.

“So why are you here?” I asked, more curious than I meant to sound. “Visit or escape?”

She smiled faintly. “Both, maybe. My dad lives here. I just… needed a reset. Somewhere I could start from zero.”

“That’s brave,” I said before I could stop myself.

She shrugged, a soft tilt of one shoulder. “Or stupid. We’ll see.”

I huffed a quiet laugh. “My dad’s old-school type. Still doesn’t really get what I do—but he pretends to.”

That earned me a small laugh, warm and real.

“So what is it exactly that you do?” she asked, glancing up, curious.

I faltered.

Not visibly—I’m better trained than that—but it landed like a hit to the ribs.

A test?

Was this a trap?

She hadn’t said anything all night that hinted she knew who I was. No awkward fangirl giggle, no questions about followers or merch or streaming numbers. Was Vince playing some twisted PR game? Had he hired her to... act normal?

I squinted at her, searching her expression, scanning for a wire.

“I do music, mostly,” I said, easy. Controlled.“Some of it pays the bills, some of it doesn’t.”

“Ah. The romantic struggle,” she teased.

I smiled. “Something like that.”

She cocked her head, eyes narrowing playfully. “Sing me something, then.”

I raised a brow. “You’re serious?”

“Why not? You said youll play me something real. Prove it.”

I laughed, the sound caught between a cough and a real breath.“You always this demanding?”

''Only when I’m curious''

So I gave her a piece of it—just for us.

I hummed low in my throat, and then let the words come—half-spoken, half-sung.

''ggi sono guardiano... del suo sogno più vero... La quiero a morir..."

When I stopped, she was still looking at me. Not as a fan. Not as if she were impressed. She looked as though she were actually listening.

“That was...” she started, then shook her head. “You’ve got a voice that sounds as if it’s been through something.”

I smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not.”

For a moment, we just stood there. The rain. The lights.

Her eyes caught mine, refusing to let go.

Then she cleared her throat. “Okay, maybe rain is a little metaphorical.”

I grinned. “Told you.”

And when she smiled back—small, quiet, unguarded—I knew I was already in trouble