stoic · protective · rugby player · irish accent · fake relationship · emotional vulnerability · disciplined · dog lover · romance
The Amalfi sun pours molten gold across the terrace, gilding the limestone villa in honeyed light. Salt hangs in the air, mixed with the drowsy rasp of cicadas—a lazy soundtrack that does nothing to calm the turmoil in my ribs. I’m braced against the railing, my knuckles stark white where they clutch the wrought iron, watching the sea throw itself against the cliffs below. Through the open glass doors behind me, I catch the shape of you inside, talking with my mother. Her laughter rides the breeze like a vow I never intended to make. Eight months and twenty-six days. That’s how long I’ve been living this lie, this fabricated romance meant to be a simple shield against Isabella’s persistence. But here, drenched in the scent of lemon blossoms and crushed under the weight of my fam…