I stared at the red off-shoulder crop top hanging beside the low-waist jeans, its fabric catching the dull evening light. It looked bold—too bold for someone still unsure whether she even wanted to step outside tonight. I wondered if I really wanted to go to this party or crawl back into my doubts. But Yolanda was already expecting me, and more importantly, I needed to keep an eye on Keith.
A sudden buzzing snapped me back to reality. My phone vibrated against the dresser.
Mom.
She finally remembered she had a daughter—one she had left alone with strangers she called family.
"Hello, honey. How's the weekend so far?" she asked, her voice light and careless, as if we hadn't argued just hours ago.
"Great, but I—"
She cut me off before I could mention Danilo. Before I could complain. Before I could breathe.
What a very mother thing to do.
Still, the air felt lighter afterward. No tension. No lingering bitterness. Either there was no bad blood… or she simply didn't want to confront whatever last night had been.
"I'll be staying the week, honey. Some things came up."
That should've reassured me, but instead it made my chest tighten. What could possibly be more important than her job now? She had to be enjoying herself with him. And honestly—though I hated admitting it—a part of me was glad she was finally happy again.
"Danilo might have to spend the week."
Just like that, she ruined everything.
What did she mean he was spending the week?
"Ugh, Mom—he's a boy we've barely known. How can you trust him this much? You know how much I value my privacy. This isn't helping."
She went quiet. The line stretched into silence, thick and uncomfortable. I waited, counting my breaths, until she finally spoke again.
"For me."
It sounded like a plea.
Before I could respond, a strange smell crept into the air—dry, sharp, unmistakably wrong. Then the fire alarm screamed.
"You've got to be kidding me."
I dropped my phone and rushed down the stairs, half-convinced the government had thrown a grenade into the apartment. But when I reached the bottom, I saw Danilo standing in the kitchen, chaos blooming around him.
"What the hell can you do right?" I yelled from the edge of the stairs.
And then—for a second too long—I got distracted.
His back was to me, broad and bare, just as one would imagine a shirtless Italian man to look: careless confidence, muscles moving naturally, skin glowing under the kitchen light.
"Well, stop staring and help him out," a voice behind me mocked.
I spun around quickly, shooting her a look, hoping she hadn't caught me lingering too long. I wondered how long she'd been standing there. Then I headed toward the kitchen, and that's when I noticed it—a tattoo running along his spine. A date. I couldn't read it fully before he sensed my presence and turned.
"Ah—I promise, I don't know how this happened," he said nervously.
Our eyes dropped to the blackened dough on the table. Whatever it was supposed to be, it had lost all identity. I laughed before I could stop myself.
"Lucky me. I don't get to see this often."
My smile faded immediately.
"You can leave. I'll take care of the mess you made," I said, shutting the oven.
"It's my mess. I'll clean it up—I just need your help."
His voice shifted. Softer. Lower. His accent slipped through his words like a secret. I looked up. His dark, messy hair clung to his forehead, his body slick with sweat from the heat.
"Pass the sponge," I said quickly, forcing my attention away before he caught me staring again.
I wiped crumbs off the table while he scraped the ruined dough into the trash.
"Must be your first time in the kitchen."
"Well, yeah. We pay people to do everything," he replied casually. "I thought I could live a little here."
"Next time, ask for help—or watch a YouTube video."
Our eyes met. Finally. After so much avoidance.
"You don't make it easy to talk to you," he said quietly. "Let alone ask for help."
"And Emilia?" I grabbed the sponge again, desperate to break eye contact.
"You cleaned that already," he said. "You make it so hard. What did I ever do to you?"
That was when it hit me.
What did he ever do?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And yet, I had never once been kind to him. I didn't hate him—if anything, I was grateful his father made my mother smile again. Still, a part of me rejected his presence, as if accepting him meant losing something of my own.
"What do you want from me?" I asked.
"Are you free tonight?" he said.
Why. Why. Why.
Now I suddenly didn't want to be free.
But then it hit me—I wasn't. Tonight was the kickback. I was going with Yolanda.
"No. Tonight's KICKBACK ."
His eyes lit up instantly.
"Perfect. We should go together."
I didn't want to jump to conclusions, but whenever I was around Danilo, it felt like he forgot the kind of relationship we were supposed to have. Or maybe I was just overthinking—as always. I was an only child, but I knew my older brother wouldn't want to go partying with his sister.
I tried to ignore the feeling.
"Sure," I said. "10 p.m.?"