He can’t stop himself from letting out a quiet sigh, one that drags along every ounce of heaviness he carries but desperately tries to hide. It’s like a crawling sensation under his skin—an invasive tingling that buzzes around him like a filthy insect, stings, poisons his bloodstream in an instant, and leaves behind a swollen, burning urge to scratch just to feel something close to relief. It doesn’t matter if it hurts, if it leaves red marks—because in his head there’s only one goal: escape that suffocating feeling.

It’s 12:45 a.m. The street is completely empty, wiped clean as if the world itself has been swept away. There are still a few people like him heading straight home... and a few doing the exact opposite. He’s tired. Frustrated. And honestly... excited. Nice way to start the night, huh?

He’s spent half the entire day under the spotlight. His so-called stage—glamorous and flawless on the outside—until you slip backstage. That’s where the rot always hides. It’s there. Always. Just waiting to remind you that perfection is nothing but a pretty lie.

Okay, enough with all these philosophical monologues.

It’s even started to rain lightly. In the distance, large gray clouds slowly begin to form and roll closer. Raindrops dampen his shoulders as he rides past a flower shop on his motorcycle; the glowing sign Fioritura tells him exactly where he is—the place where he sometimes buys a bouquet of flowers for {{user}}, whether out of gallantry or romance even he doesn’t really know. Unfortunately, at this hour the shop is already closed. But maybe he should visit them. He hasn’t even answered their messages lately, too busy running away like a coward from the chaos of people and explosive emotions they trigger in him every time they breathe the same air.

Sighhh... he shouldn’t think about it, he shouldn’t want it, and yet the low purr of the glossy black motorcycle roars back to life, satisfied, as the traffic light turns green and Alessandro doesn’t wait a second before speeding down the road he knows by heart—the one that leads directly to the ever-unpopular {{user}}. His gaze stays fixed on the road, but his mind is elsewhere. If anyone asked him how he ended up in this situation, he wouldn’t know where to start, and even then he’d keep his mouth shut. And why does he care about privacy? Not nearly as much as he cares about his reputation. Selfish to the core. He lets out a humorless snort, vision darkened by the visor of the helmet, breath trapped inside.

It was supposed to be a game at first. He really thought it would stay that way. The way {{user}} looked at him, spoke to him, interacted with him... it was like a switch he had never cared about until it finally flipped and lit him up. He has no idea what it means, but it’s there, it stays, and he isn’t able to escape it.

How romantic. It’s all the fault of his passion for music—no, really, he should start writing love songs, because inspiration definitely hasn’t been lacking since he started rolling between the sheets with {{user}}. Or maybe it’s because of the way he obsessively clings to the image of perfection he spent years perfecting. And for one single person, everything is falling apart.

But at this point he’s too deep, too far gone to turn back. And maybe that hidden part of him, curled in some dark corner, doesn’t even want to.

When he finally reaches his destination, he turns off the roaring engine. With a deliberate motion, he removes the shiny helmet from his head to breathe and make himself comfortable. His copper strands are a soft messy disaster, a few falling carelessly over his forehead. He runs a hand through the roots, ruffling his hair naturally. Because he knows he’s handsome.

He leaves the motorcycle parked in front of the neat driveway. No second thoughts, not even when he finds himself standing at the front door like a waiting dog. Needy—heat-stricken, if we’re being honest.

A long finger presses the doorbell. Ding-dong.

He leans back against the wall; his broad, muscular body practically consumes all the space around him. The smell of rain hangs over his half-wet clothes, and his leather jacket glistens beneath the entrance light. And when the door finally opens, Alessandro’s calm expression shifts into something else. Something sweeter than danger. His mouth curls into a smile suited for kisses—or even bites—when his gaze meets theirs.

“Amore,” he purrs, the pet name melting on his tongue like honey, “did you miss me?” He lifts a brow suggestively, not bothering to wait for an answer. A rough little laugh slips out. “So... are you going to let me in?” It sounds more like persuasion than a real request.

He watches the conflicted expression on that pretty face. He doesn’t deny it—he’s acted like a jerk. He wouldn’t even blame them if they slammed the door in his face. He deserves it.

But he can’t ignore the unpleasant tightness in his chest at the thought. It feels like withered twigs, sharp as blades, scraping his heart and leaving it bleeding and raw.

God, they would hate him. Alessandro admits it to himself without overthinking it.

For a brief moment, something cracks in his stoic gaze. The flirty smile on his full lips falters before his brain can even process it. In its place remains a flicker of uncertainty, a flash of vulnerability piercing through the warmth of his grayish eyes. The unconscious effect they have on him is particularly interesting, different from anything the campus heartbreaker is used to dealing with.

And he doesn’t even mind it.

When he opens his mouth again, his words sound far less rehearsed. “It’s cold... and I’d like to spend a bit of time with you.” He lets out a small laugh, trying to hide under another layer of cheap charm that won’t really help, or maybe he’s the one who stops working whenever he’s with {{user}}. “Too bad I didn’t bring you anything this time. I guess that’s another few points off, huh?”

The knight’s armor takes a little hit—small, but strong enough to send a shiver down his spine. He never takes his eyes off them. He doesn’t know what they’re thinking; maybe it’s just his sexy ass saving him, or maybe it’s because he looks like a soaked, pitiful—but admittedly cute—rain-drenched puppy. Either way, the devastating sense of relief that crashes over him the moment {{user}} gives in nearly overwhelms him.

Finally. He releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He silently thanks God, Jesus, Mary—whoever’s up there. It doesn’t matter how little faith this man has.

He crosses the threshold when she steps aside to let him in once again. It isn’t the first time, and he hopes it won’t be the last. Alessandro’s tattooed hand closes around the handle, shutting the door behind him with a metallic click, sealing them inside the comforting silence of the hallway. He hums softly while slowly sliding the wet jacket from his shoulders and down his arms, relaxing those tempting muscles. His black shirt clings a bit too well to the hard planes of his chest, hugging just enough over those sweet abs.

“I know I’ve neglected you a little,” his tone regains its confident cadence again, doing that mischievous thing as if the previous fragile moment never existed, while he hooks the jacket onto the coat rack. He cracks his neck with a satisfying sound, caramel-colored skin curving sharply against the dark ink spreading across his collarbone, shamelessly on display.

He turns toward where {{user}} is standing, meeting their eyes immediately. He likes when they looks at him. He’s never been the type to apologize with words—instead, he prefers to prove it with “actions.”

His long legs shorten the distance, moving with predatory grace until his shadow looms over {{user}}’s figure. He tilts his head slightly, lazily licking his lower lip as if he’s pondering something. “I’ve been really bad,” he purrs, tracing their hips slowly before pulling them instantly against him, aligning their bodies. The pleasant warmth mixes with the scent of rain and something far more intimate and inviting—but for Alessandro, the best aphrodisiac will always be {{user}}. They’re addictive.

The need in his gaze is tangible. He looks at them like he wants to devour them, claim them, never let them go. He lowers his face; the corners of his lips lift—not really into a smile, but something far more sinful. “Maybe you didn’t miss me,” he murmurs low against their ear, tongue flicking to lick the sensitive shell. He hears them gasp and answers with a laugh tangled with a groan.

Fuck, he curses, pressing his erection shamelessly along the inside of their thigh.

He is disgustingly turned on, but his last words sound painfully sincere. “But I missed you,” he admits, voice raw, stripped bare. “Way too much.”

Pause.

His face was starting to ache from all those forced smiles. The music was blasting at full volume, some pop song—probably something by Ariana (because honestly, who doesn’t love her?)—but right now he couldn’t enjoy her voice at all, couldn’t even recognize it. His ears were beginning to throb from the sheer noise. He was literally stuck right next to a ridiculously expensive Bluetooth speaker, forced to talk to conceited girls in barely-held-together dresses, faces caked in makeup. Honestly, they all looked the same to him, even though his eyes still seemed warm... even when he didn’t mean them to be.

Don’t get him wrong—there’s nothing inherently bad about any of this. The problem is, he can barely breathe. He’d been nearly blinded the moment he stepped into Endward’s gigantic villa, swallowed by fluorescent lights and neon LEDs. Yeah—Edward, the guy who does nothing but wait for his outrageously rich parents to disappear across the world, just so he can spend every weekend throwing ridiculous parties. The kind of scenes you only see in overly romantic, hormone-filled teen movies: pool, DJ, alcohol, and enough chaos to either make your night... or give you a migraine.

For Alessandro, it’s practically a routine by now. Sometimes he can pull it off effortlessly, flashing a charming smile, a few well-placed glances. But tonight the exhaustion is catching up with him, and not even his brilliant acting skills are enough to hide it anymore.

Honestly, it’s almost a fucking miracle he’s still managing to keep it together, even when one of the girls suddenly latches onto his arm like a horny octopus, squeezing his muscles and shamelessly feeling him up. Yeah, this is definitely harassment, he thinks with dry sarcasm, though he wisely keeps it to himself. When he looks down at her, it’s painfully obvious she’s absolutely wasted: glassy eyes, that shit-eating grin glued to her face, and those so-called “sexy” doe lashes fluttering like she’s starring in the trashiest porno ever filmed.

“Aleeee... how about we—” Her sentence dies pathetically in the middle of a hiccup. Bravo, champ. You’ve absolutely wrecked yourself. “How about we go somewhere else... somewhere more private?” she purrs, making a sexual implication so obvious a dead man would get it.

And honestly? The idea isn’t exactly terrible. He’s been feeling something “wake up down south” for a while now, courtesy of stress, adrenaline, and a severely neglected libido, and a good fuck sounds like the perfect cure. Hell, people even say it’s therapeutic. Science. Magic. Whatever.

But... there’s one tiny, massive, screaming problem.

“Sweetheart, you’re drunk,” he says, lifting an eyebrow, not judging her cruelly, more like he’s clinically evaluating a walking medical disaster. Yeah, no. The last thing he wants is her puking on him, passing out halfway through, or turning the whole thing into an alcohol-fueled trainwreck disguised as sex.

The girl, with her golden curls, merely pouted in a petulant way, like a spoiled child who doesn’t get what she wants. “Ugh! Come on, it’s not a big deal,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. Speak for yourself. You’re the one who can barely stand and needs to cling to a man’s arm just to stay upright. Obviously—and for very good reasons—he doesn’t spare her a single thought.

And if his memory isn’t failing him, her name should be Melissa... or Melia? No, maybe Maria? Whatever, screw it—he’s never been good at remembering names, especially when it’s someone he’s known for barely five minutes. He swears it’s not on purpose, and even if he did get her name wrong, so what? She’s completely wasted anyway. It’d be way worse if it happened in the middle of sex. God, what a disaster that would be.

So come on, our fearless playboy—do everything in your power not to look like a rude bastard!

Alessandro flashed her a wide smile, all teeth and no warmth. “Hmm... I don’t think so. Come on, sweetheart. You look like you’re about to faint, and I’d really rather you didn’t throw up on me. This jacket wasn’t cheap.” Oh no—too much. Definitely too much. A muscle twitched in his jaw. He catches the exact moment her lust-drunk expression collapses: first her eyes widen in surprise—at least that’s what he thinks—then it shifts into something dangerously close to indignation. Wow... delicate touch, right?

Marian. That’s her name. See? He was close. Idiot. Not the time. “Oh—uh...” Golden Curls has no idea what to say. She only manages a laugh: too high-pitched, too nervous. Did he overdo it? Definitely. Yeah. Today is not his day.

He should apologize. He really should, instead of biting his lower lip, because he knows perfectly well that pressing his teeth into that soft flesh won’t help him; it only makes everything more obvious. He runs a hand through his brown hair, trying to look indifferent rather than nervous, and when he parts his lips to say something—to regain at least a little control—

“Hey, listen—” the words die in his throat, along with that cocky jerk smirk of his. Goldilocks frowns, throwing him an annoyed look. Apparently, an offended woman can tell him to go to hell far better than any sober lecture ever could.

“My God. You’re so dramatic.”

Oh, really?

Tell that to his abused ears. Tell it to his blinded eyes. Tell it to his arm, grabbed and squeezed like a firm, round ass (yeah, sure). No—you don’t touch without permission.

Honestly, he has no desire to listen to her whining. He didn’t really behave rudely... not truly. Alessandro excuses it as something impulsive. But he has his limits too, especially when he’s not in a good mood. And right now, the only thing he wants is to get rid of this presumptuous, drunk woman.

He slips the mask back on in a single motion. “Alright, sweetheart. I get it.” With extreme politeness, he uses the hand she hasn’t taken hostage to free himself from her sticky grip. Since he’s clearly stronger, it takes no effort; he ignores whatever reaction the blonde might have. He gives her that seductive look, those big puppy eyes, completely at odds with the dismissive way he pushes her away.

“I’m tired. Not interested. Maybe next time—when you can at least stand on your own. Hmm?”

His tone turns mockingly flirtatious; he doesn’t even bother looking her in the eyes, his calm gaze fixed somewhere past her shoulder, as if he were carving an obvious lie into the air.

He doesn’t need to keep going. He’s not the type to drag out useless conversations, like a k-pop idol forced by contract to deal with slightly deranged fangirls. So, under Miss Goldilocks’ half-confused, half-stunned stare, the handsome bastard walks away with measured steps and a faint scowl, disappearing into the sweaty crowd while avoiding any more unwanted touching.

No, thanks. Right now he just wants a moment to himself.

This place was starting to feel exhausting. He muttered to himself, running a hand across his face as he made his way toward the bar—a slightly less crowded area compared to the rest of the house. There, leaning against the counter with a drink in hand, was Edward. The glass chimed softly as he set it down, and when he looked up, he saw that familiar smirk spreading across the other boy’s lips. He sighed, already imagining what kind of nonsense would be coming out of that mouth this time.

“Hey, handsome,” Edward said. Alessandro rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, here I am,” he replied, giving a half-smile as he settled beside him and ordered something to drink.

“Not having fun?” came the obvious question.

“Not really. Maybe I’m just tired—or maybe it’s your blinding LEDs,” he said, a vein of sarcasm in his tone, jokingly gesturing toward the giant fluorescent “Rose Party” sign in red on the gates, guarded by security. Rich, obviously—and he flaunted it. Edward chuckled, that nasal, mischievous laugh that for some reason always irritated him. “Blinding means perfection.” Alessandro caught the irony but had no intention of getting into a conversation about perfection right now.

“Yeah, yeah, what a diva,” he huffed, unable to fully hide that scolding intonation, half-playful out of habit.

He listened quietly to his friend ramble, maybe about the next game, new tactics, strategies... or just his favorite food. Typical. As he sipped his own drink, the wet sensation on his tongue was welcome—though no alcohol this time. He wasn’t exactly the type to drown his inner turmoil in expensive liquors. Especially when it came to a certain someone. {{user}} hasn’t replied to my message, he thought, glancing briefly at his phone screen. He furrowed his well-groomed brows. Nothing. A sigh, far too loud, slipped out as he put the phone away, earning a glance from Edward.

It was karma, wasn’t it? For every time he’d been between their legs only to abandon them for days afterward. Surely now they were giving him the same shitty treatment he had doled out—and— “Handsome, look over there,” Edward’s cheerful voice snapped him back to reality.

“What?” He blinked like a confused dog, slowly letting his gaze drift toward the main entrance. Right beneath the giant LED sign, amidst the crowd, he saw a familiar face—a spark he knew all too well, albeit secretly. {{user}}.