Emilio should have gone inside.
That would have been the smart thing to do. The safe thing.
But instead, he stood there—lingering—his body betraying him, even as every logical part of his mind screamed at him to move.
Matteo hadn't touched him.
Not yet.
But his presence alone was too much. The heat rolling off of him, the subtle shift of his stance as he moved just close enough for Emilio to feel him there.
"I should go inside," Emilio murmured, but his feet stayed planted.
Matteo smirked. "Then go."
A taunt. A trap.
And Emilio fell straight into it.
Because he didn't move.
Matteo tilted his head, his dark gaze slowly dragging over Emilio's face, taking his time like he was committing every little detail to memory.
"You're scared of me," Matteo said, his voice quiet but sure.
Emilio bristled, his jaw clenching. "I'm not."
Matteo's smirk deepened. "Liar."
Emilio inhaled sharply. "You're full of yourself."
Matteo hummed. "Maybe. But that doesn't change the fact that your hands are shaking."
Emilio's stomach dropped.
His hands were shaking.
Not from fear.
At least, not the kind he wanted to admit.
Because yes, Matteo was dangerous. Yes, being around him was like playing with fire.
But the worst part?
The part that made his breath shudder and his pulse trip over itself?
It wasn't just fear.
It was something else.
Something worse.
Something that made his throat go dry as Matteo took another step closer, the space between them shrinking to nothing.
"You feel it, don't you?" Matteo murmured, his voice lower now, his breath warm against Emilio's skin.
Emilio's pulse spiked. "Feel what?"
Matteo's gaze flicked down to his lips, just for a second, before meeting his eyes again.
And Emilio felt it.
That slow, aching pull. The suffocating weight of whatever this was, coiling tighter, making it impossible to move, impossible to breathe.
Matteo didn't touch him.
But he didn't have to.
Because this?
This was worse.
"You know exactly what I mean," Matteo said softly.
Emilio swallowed hard. "This isn't—"
"Real?" Matteo finished for him. "Then tell me to leave."
Emilio's breath hitched.
Matteo waited.
One second.
Two.
Three.
And Emilio hated himself.
Because he didn't say a damn thing.
Matteo exhaled, something dark and satisfied flickering in his gaze. Then, with deliberate slowness, he reached out.
His fingers barely brushed the inside of Emilio's wrist, the touch so light it could have been imagined—except Emilio felt it. Felt it everywhere.
Matteo's voice was barely above a whisper when he spoke.
"You don't really want me to go, do you?"
Emilio's heart slammed against his ribs.
He should have said yes.
Should have stepped back, turned around, walked inside, and shut the door.
But he didn't.
And Matteo knew it.
Knew it by the way Emilio's breath came faster. Knew it by the way his fingers twitched at his sides, like he was fighting something he was bound to lose.
Knew it by the way he stayed.
Matteo let his fingers trail away, but the heat of his touch lingered like a brand.
Then, with one last look—one last smirk that said I own you and you don't even know it yet—Matteo turned, disappearing into the night.
Emilio stood frozen, his skin burning, his chest tight, his entire body betraying him with the realization that should have terrified him more than anything else.
Matteo DeLuca had him.
And Emilio?
He was starting to think he didn't want to escape