7. Ghost of Last Night
The first thing I felt was warmth. Not the lazy, golden kind that poured through the open window, but the specific heat of another man’s body inches from mine.
Matteo was still asleep, turned slightly toward me on the bed, one arm flung above his head, the other resting loosely across his abs.
Morning light slid over him in soft waves, catching on the faint sheen of dried sweat along his collarbone and the barely visible streaks lower down where he had not quite cleaned everything away last night. ?
He looked unfairly beautiful like this. Curls wild against the white pillow, long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, lips parted just enough to let slow, even breaths escape.
His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, abs contracting gently with every inhale, the ridges catching the light before smoothing out again.
The red shorts had ridden even lower overnight, sitting dangerously low on his hips, the fabric stretched tight across the unmistakable swell of morning wood.
I stared longer than I should have, tracing the line of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband, remembering exactly how it had felt to slide my hand under there in the dark.
My throat went dry. The memory hit all at once: his cock hot and heavy in my palm, the wet drag of precum, the way he had bucked and groaned my name when he came.
The mess on his abs, on my fingers. The moment in the bathroom when I had almost lifted my hand to my mouth, almost licked his spilled cum.
I had washed it away instead, watched it swirl down the drain, and told myself it was the smart thing to do.
Now, in the quiet morning, I wondered if smart had ever felt this hollow.
Matteo stirred. A low sound rumbled in his chest as he stretched, arms reaching overhead, back arching off the mattress. Every muscle in his torso flexed at once, abs tightening into sharp, perfect lines before he relaxed again with a sigh. His eyes fluttered open, dark and sleepy, and landed on me.
For a second neither of us moved.
Then he smiled, slow and crooked, the same lazy grin that had talked me into this whole fake boyfriend mess in the first place. “Morning, boyfriend,” he said, voice rough with sleep.
The word landed between us like a spark on dry grass. I forced a laugh, propped myself on an elbow to hide the way my heart had started hammering. “Morning, Romano. You drool when you sleep, you know that?”
He huffed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Liar. You’re the one who steals all the blanket.” He glanced down at the sheet tangled around my waist, then quickly away again, cheeks warming just enough to notice. “Also, you kick. I’ve got bruises.”
“Big baby,” I said, nudging his shin with my foot. He nudged back harder, playful, but his eyes kept flicking anywhere except mine for longer than a second.
We stayed like that for a minute, trading dumb jabs the way we always had, except everything felt tilted now.
Every laugh came out a beat too late. Every casual touch lingered half a second too long.
He sat up first, scrubbing both hands through his curls, the movement making his abs flex again. I tried not to look. Failed.
“Gonna piss,” he muttered, swinging his legs off the bed. He stood, stretched once more, back muscles shifting under sun-browned skin, then padded barefoot toward the door. The red shorts clung to his muscled ass that I couldn’t stop staring at it.
I exhaled slowly when he disappeared, flopped back against the pillow, and stared at the ceiling. My body still remembered everything: the weight of his cock in my hand, the broken sound he made when he came. And now he was joking about drooling like nothing had changed.
Maybe for him nothing had.
The bathroom door opened. Matteo stepped out, running a hand through his hair, shirtless and golden in the morning light. He looked like he belonged on a postcard, not in this cramped guest room after what we had done.
He was halfway to grabbing his shirt when the bedroom door flew open without a knock.
Antonio and Paul burst into the bedroom, grinning wide and already loud.
“Rise and shine, lovebirds!” Antonio bellowed, clapping his hands once for emphasis. “Everybody decent in here? If you’re naked, hide your dicks, we’re coming in!”
Paul made a dramatic show of covering his eyes, peeking through spread fingers. “We heard zero noise all night. Either you two fucked each other to death or you’re the most boring couple in Palermo.”
Matteo froze mid-step, shirt dangling from his hand, cheeks going instantly pink. I yanked the sheet higher over my waist even though I was wearing shorts, face burning.
“Jesus, knock much?” Matteo muttered, but he was already laughing, the sound a little too loud, a little too forced.
Antonio flopped onto the foot of the bed. “Why knock? We wanted the full morning-after show. Matteo’s got that post-sex glow. Look at him.”
Paul whistled. “Seriously, man. You’re shining. Adrian, you animal. Spill. How many times?”
“There are no details,” I said quickly, voice cracking halfway through. “We slept. Literally slept.”
Antonio gasped theatrically. “Slept? In the same bed? Scandalous.”
Matteo pulled his shirt on fast, covering the faint streaks of dried up cum still visible on his lower stomach. “He hogs the covers and kicks like a mule,” he said, punching my shoulder lightly. “Ten out of ten, do not recommend sharing a bed with this one.”
The guys howled. Paul leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. “Sure, sure. That’s why you both look like you didn’t sleep a wink.”
Antonio reached over and ruffled Matteo’s curls. “Look at this one. Bed head and satisfied smirk. Classic.”
Matteo shoved him off, laughing again, but I caught the quick glance he threw me…half second, eyes wide, before he looked away. My stomach twisted.
“Pass the judgment somewhere else,” Matteo said, grabbing his phone from the nightstand. “We’re starving. Coffee downstairs or what?”
“Coffee and full interrogation,” Paul corrected, winking at me. “Adrian, you’re walking funny. Everything okay down there?”
I threw a pillow at him. It bounced off his chest. The room erupted in more laughter, loud and relentless.
Matteo slung an arm around my shoulders as we headed for the door, the gesture easy and familiar for the audience. “Best fake boyfriend ever,” he announced to the room, voice bright.
Under the weight of his arm I smiled like my chest wasn’t slowly caving in.
Downstairs smelled like fresh espresso and yesterday’s beer.
A few guys were already moving around the kitchen, scavenging whatever was left in the fridge.
Matteo steered us toward the counter where someone had started a pot.
He poured two mugs without asking how I wanted mine, added milk the way he knew I liked, and handed it over.
Our fingers brushed. He pulled his hand back fast.
We drank leaning side by side against the counter, shoulders almost touching, both pretending to watch the coffee drip while the teasing continued around us.
“Pass the sugar to your boyfriend, Matteo.”
“Adrian, you’ve got beard burn or is that just stubble?”
“Bet they didn’t even sleep. Bet they were up all night practicing for the next Instagram story.
Matteo played it perfectly: stealing sips from my mug, calling me babe every chance he got, arm brushing mine like it was nothing.
To them it looked effortless. To me it felt like standing on cracking ice.
He leaned in at one point, lips brushing my temple in a quick, showy kiss that made the table erupt again. “Ignore them,” he murmured, loud enough for everyone to hear.
I laughed along, thigh pressed to his under the counter, heart pounding against my ribs.
The morning sun kept climbing, bright and unforgiving, and I wondered how long we could keep pretending the night had never happened.
The teasing finally burned itself out around the time the coffee pot ran dry.
One by one the guys drifted toward showers or couches, nursing hangovers and planning the rest of their lazy Sunday.
Matteo stretched again, shirt riding up just enough to flash skin, and announced he would drop me home before sunday traffic got worse.
No one argued. They just whistled and told us not to crash doing anything indecent on the way.
We stepped out into the bright morning together.
The sun was already high, turning the sea in the distance into hammered silver.
Matteo’s yellow Vespa waited exactly where he had parked it, scratched and sun-faded and perfect.
He swung a leg over, settled onto the seat, and glanced back at me with that half-smile that used to feel easy.
I climbed on behind him like I had a hundred times before.
My arms slid around his waist out of habit, palms landing flat against the warm cotton of his shirt.
Except this time I could feel the exact ridges of his abs underneath, the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing.
This time I knew what his lips tasted like.
This time my fingers remembered the heat of his cock pulsing in my grip.
He kicked the engine to life. The Vespa coughed once, then settled into its familiar rattle. He pulled away from the curb without a word.
Palermo unfolded around us in a rush of color and noise.
Narrow streets lined with ochre buildings, laundry flapping from wrought-iron balconies, old men arguing over cards outside a bar that was already open.
The air smelled like espresso and sea salt and hot stone.
Scooters wove past us in fearless streams, horns blaring for no reason.
Sunlight flashed between the buildings in bright, blinding bursts.
I had ridden behind him like this for years.
Late nights after bars, early mornings to the beach, lazy afternoons when neither of us had anywhere better to be.
He had also dropped me home after meetings at the office ran late.
My chin had rested on his shoulder a thousand times.
My hands had known the shape of his waist. But never like this.
Never after I had made him come apart in the dark.
His back was warm against my chest, solid and familiar.
Every time he leaned into a turn my palms slid a fraction across his stomach.
Every time he accelerated the engine vibrated through both of us, a low thrum that settled straight between my legs.
I tried to keep my grip loose, casual, the way it always was. My body refused to cooperate.
He drove faster than usual, weaving through traffic with sharp, decisive turns. His hands were tight on the handlebars. I caught the edge of his profile when he checked a mirror: jaw clenched, eyes fixed ahead, curls whipping in the wind. He looked like he was running from something.
Or toward something.
We hit a straight stretch along the waterfront.
The sea glittered to our left, boats bobbing in the harbor.
For a moment the road opened up and he opened the throttle.
The Vespa surged forward, wind rushing past us loud enough to swallow any attempt at conversation.
My arms tightened around him automatically.
I felt him tense, then relax by degrees, his back settling heavier against my chest.
I wondered if he was remembering too. The weight of my hand on his dick. The way he had whispered my name like a question. The mess he had made across both of us.
The ride was over too soon. He slowed as we turned into my street, engine dropping to a lazy putter. My building appeared ahead, faded blue shutters and cracked stucco like always. He pulled up to the curb, cut the engine, and let one foot drop to the ground for balance.
Silence rushed in, thick and sudden.
Neither of us moved to get off.
I loosened my arms slowly, hands sliding away from his waist. He stayed facing forward, fingers still curled around the handlebars. The quiet stretched until it felt sharp.
Finally he turned his head, just enough to look at me over his shoulder. Sunlight caught in his eyes, turning them lighter than usual. He rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture I knew meant he was stalling.
“Hey,” he said, voice low under the distant city noise. “Thanks for hanging out with my friends…Thanks for… last night. And for not being weird about it.”
The words landed soft but heavy. I felt them settle somewhere behind my ribs.
I forced a laugh, light and careless. “Anytime, Romano. That’s what fake boyfriends are for, right?”
He smiled, small and crooked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Exactly.”
We did the awkward half-hug you can only manage on a scooter: my arms around his shoulders, his hand clapping my back twice, quick and firm, the way guys do when they don’t want it to linger. He smelled like sun and salt and the faint trace of last night’s cologne.
I climbed off. My legs felt unsteady on solid ground.
He kicked the stand down but didn’t start the engine yet. For a second we just looked at each other across the small space between us. Wind tugged at his curls. I wanted to say something real. I wanted to ask if he had felt it too, if any part of him was as wrecked as I was.
Instead I lifted a hand in a lazy wave. “Text me when you get home.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Will do.”
He pulled his helmet back on, visor still up. Gave me one last quick nod. Then he twisted the throttle and the Vespa roared to life again.I watched him pull away, yellow paint bright against the morning glare, until he turned the corner and disappeared.
The street felt suddenly too quiet.
I stood there longer than I should have, hands in my pockets, staring at the empty space where he had been. The ghost of his warmth still clung to my shirt, to my palms. I could still feel the vibration of the engine between my legs.
Inside my apartment the air was cool and still. I closed the door, leaned back against it, and let my head thud softly against the wood.
Thanks for not being weird about it.
I closed my eyes and replayed the line until it echoed.
He was already pulling away.
And I had no idea how to stop it.