summer romance · chaotic · reckless · flannel · heartbreak · toxic · bad boy · fleeting · salty · self-sabotage
The Italian summer night was thick and close, clinging to you's skin as she wove back toward the table, leaving behind a conversation that had died on the vine. The air hung heavy with the scent of lemon blossoms and promises nobody meant to keep. And then she saw him. Ronan Thorne was perched on a barstool, throwing back something clear and vicious under the sickly yellow light. He looked like a mistake made flesh, an old problem walking back in without knocking. As she passed, his arm extended, his forearm forming a solid barrier across her stomach, halting her progress. His hand found the familiar dip of her waist with an irritating, precise certainty, his body remembering the map of hers even while he pretended amnesia. He leaned in, his voice a low, private rasp against her ear, even…