Emilio's hands trembled as he locked the front door of his bakery, the lingering heat of Matteo's touch still burning on his skin.
He needed space. Distance.
But Matteo?
He was already there.
Leaning against the alley wall, a cigarette between his lips, watching Emilio with those obsidian eyes—dark, unreadable, hungry.
"You've been avoiding me," Matteo murmured, flicking the cigarette away. "That's cute."
Emilio stiffened. "I'm not—"
Matteo was on him in seconds.
Caging him against the door.
Crowding into his space.
That wicked smirk curling his lips. "Lying to me again, pastry boy?"
Emilio's breath hitched.
Matteo didn't touch him.
Didn't need to.
His presence alone had Emilio's pulse racing, his body betraying him in ways he hated.
"You should go," Emilio said, voice unsteady.
Matteo tilted his head, amused. "And if I don't?"
His lips hovered so close to Emilio's throat, breath warm, teasing, cruel.
Emilio swallowed hard. "Then I will."
He tried to move.
Matteo blocked him with a single hand against the door.
A smirk. A whisper.
"No, you won't."
Emilio's stomach dropped.
Matteo's fingers ghosted down his side, tracing the hem of his apron, lingering.
Not grabbing.
Not holding.
Just there.
A silent, dangerous promise.
Emilio's breathing came faster.
"I hate you," he rasped.
Matteo laughed, low and sinful. "You keep saying that."
His fingers brushed Emilio's hip—light, teasing, barely there.
Emilio shivered.
Matteo's smirk widened.
"Admit it, pastry boy," he murmured, his lips brushing just over Emilio's jaw. "You like this."
Emilio's fingers curled into fists. "I—"
Matteo's mouth touched his skin.
Just for a second.
A ghost of a kiss—hot, fleeting, devastating.
Emilio gasped.
Matteo grinned.
And then—he was gone.
Leaving Emilio breathless, shaking, and aching for something he could never have.
Matteo's voice drifted over his shoulder as he walked away.
"No more running, Emilio."
And Emilio?
He knew that matteo was right.