10 Spilled Wine & Slipped Words
The music shifted as Matteo’s arm settled around my shoulders, pulling me closer into the circle of dancers.
Jessica had changed the playlist, and now something slow and romantic filled the room, a classic Italian ballad with strings that wrapped around every note.
Couples around us swayed closer, hands finding waists, heads tilting together.
Jessica stood near the speakers, glass of red wine in hand, watching with that same sharp smile she had worn all night.
Matteo turned me gently until we faced each other, one hand sliding to the small of my back, the other catching my fingers in his. “Guess we are up,” he murmured, voice low under the melody.
I let him lead. His palm was warm through the linen of my shirt, fingers splayed wide enough to cover most of my lower back.
We moved together, slow circles in the center of the floor, bodies brushing every few steps.
His chest was close enough that I could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
The scent of him hit me again, dark and rich, woody cologne.
It wrapped around me, intoxicating.He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“You did not have to dress up for Jessica’s party.”
I tilted my head just enough to meet his gaze. “Dress up? I picked the first thing I saw.”
His smile curved, slow and teasing, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well, you look good tonight. For someone who just grabbed whatever.”
The words landed soft but heavy, sending heat through my chest.
His thumb moved in a small, deliberate circle against my back, the touch light but unmistakable.
I swallowed, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Careful. People might think you mean it.”
He did not answer right away. Instead he pulled me closer, our hips aligning as we turned, bodies fitting together like they had practiced.
The dance felt less like a performance and more like something private, even with friends swaying around us.
His hand slid lower, resting just above the waistband of my pants, fingers brushing bare skin where my shirt had ridden up. Every movement sent sparks up my spine.
Jessica’s friends had joined the dance now, couples side by side, mirroring our steps. Laughter floated between them, glasses clinking, but the world narrowed to the space between Matteo and me. His eyes stayed on mine, soft and bright in the low light, the smile never quite leaving his mouth.
Jessica stood off to the side, red wine glass cradled in one hand. She sipped slowly, gaze locked on us too obviously. The smile on her face was tight, controlled, but her eyes tracked every inch of space between our bodies, every small shift of Matteo’s hand on my back.
The song built toward its chorus, slow and aching. Matteo’s forehead nearly touched mine as we turned again, breath mingling. I felt the heat of him everywhere, the solid press of his chest, the way his fingers flexed against my skin like he could not help himself.
Then Jessica moved.
She stepped forward, glass tilted just enough, and “accidentally” bumped into Matteo’s side as she passed. Red wine splashed across his white linen shirt and the edge of his black jacket, soaking the fabric in a dark, spreading stain.
Matteo froze. His body went rigid against mine, hand tightening on my back. Fury flashed in his eyes, quick and bright. “Jessica, what the fuck.”
His voice rose, sharp enough to cut through the music.
Heads turned. The song kept playing, but the air felt suddenly thinner.
Matteo froze. His body went rigid against mine, hand tightening on my back until I felt the press of his fingers through the linen.
Fury flashed in his eyes, quick and bright, jaw clenching so hard a muscle ticked along the side.
The stain spread across his white shirt in a dark, uneven bloom, wine dripping down the front, soaking into the fabric and clinging to his skin beneath.
Jessica stood there, glass still tilted, the remaining red liquid sloshing gently.
Her face shifted from blank surprise to exaggerated concern in half a second.
“Oh my god, Matteo. I am so sorry.” She pressed a hand to her chest, eyes wide, voice dripping with fake sweetness.
“I did not see you there. Are you okay? It was an accident, I swear.”
Matteo exhaled through his nose, sharp and angry.
His free hand flexed at his side, knuckles whitening. “Urgh, Cazzo…Jess...”
The word came out low, edged with something dangerous.
A few people nearby turned, conversation faltering as the music kept playing underneath.
Jessica’s smirk flickered beneath the concern, just visible if you knew where to look, but she covered it fast, stepping closer with another apology already forming on her lips.
I moved before he could. “Matteo,” I said, voice calm but firm, sliding my hand down his arm to grip his wrist. “Matteo.”
He looked at me then, eyes still blazing, chest rising and falling too fast. The anger on his face was raw, unguarded, the kind that made the room feel smaller. I held his gaze, thumb pressing once against the inside of his wrist. Slowly the tension in his shoulders eased, not gone but leashed.
“Come on,” I said quietly. “Let us clean it up.”
He let out a breath, nodded once. I kept my hand on his arm as I guided him away from the dance floor, away from the staring eyes and Jessica’s too-innocent expression. Whispers followed us, but the music swallowed most of them.
We moved through the crowd, Matteo’s steps stiff at first, then loosening as we reached the hallway.
I pushed open the door to his bedroom, the familiar space lit only by the soft glow from the living room spilling in behind us.
The bathroom was just off to the side. I steered him toward it, closing the bedroom door with my foot.
The bathroom was small and dim, lit by a single overhead bulb that cast long shadows across the white tile.
Matteo stood in the middle of it, still breathing hard, wine-soaked shirt clinging to his chest and stomach, dark streaks running down the front in uneven ribbons.
He looked down at the mess, jaw tight, fingers flexing at his sides like he was fighting the urge to punch the wall.
I closed the bedroom door behind us with a soft click. A minute later, I heard the faint snick of the bathroom lock engaging from the other side. The sound was quiet, deliberate, like someone had turned the lock without wanting to be heard. My stomach dropped. Jessica. It had to be.
Matteo noticed it too, but he was too busy staring at the stain to react to it.
“Fuck this,” he muttered, voice rough and low. He dragged a hand through his curls, tugging once. “Moretti has gone crazy.”
He took a step, then stopped, shoulders tense. “Psycho stalker ex on me. Inviting you here, playing those romantic songs, and now pouring wine on me like some jealous ex. I am sure it is her who locked the door on purpose.”
His words came out in short bursts, anger bleeding through every syllable. He paced once, twice, the small space making him feel bigger, more contained.
“She is hell bent,” he said, voice dropping even lower, “on proving we are not boyfriends.”
He turned to face me then, eyes still bright with fury but something softer underneath, something tired.
The wine had soaked through completely now, the white linen almost transparent where it stuck to his skin, outlining every ridge of his abs, the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath his waistband.
Matteo exhaled sharply through his nose and shrugged off his black jacket in one tense motion.
The fabric landed on the closed toilet lid with a soft wet slap, wine still dripping from the sleeve.
He stood there in the wine-stained white linen shirt, the dark stain spreading across his chest like spilled ink, clinging to every ridge of muscle beneath.
I grabbed a clean towel from the rack, ran it under the cold tap until the fabric was soaked, and stepped close.
“Here. Let me see.”He did not move away.
I pressed the towel to the worst of the stain, dabbing carefully at first, then pressing harder when the red refused to lift.
The wine only spread, stubborn and deep, soaking through to his skin.
Matteo watched my hands, breathing slower now, though his jaw remained tight.
“She has been like this since the breakup,” he said, voice quieter, almost tired. “Always watching. Always needing to know everything. I wanted to end it months ago. She was too clingy, always asking who I was texting, where I was going. I could not breathe.”
His words came out slow, measured, like he was finally letting them loose after holding them in too long. I kept working the towel, moving in small circles, but the stain held fast. “You need to take off your shirt,” I said gently. “The wine is all the way through.”
He moved his hands to the side without protest.
I reached for the front of his shirt, fingers working the buttons one by one, slower than necessary, feeling the tension roll off him with each quiet click.
The fabric loosened under my hands, opening to warm skin and the steady rise and fall of his chest.
I slid the shirt off his shoulders, easing it down his arms until it slipped free and fell away.
He stood there bare from the waist up, skin flushed from the heat and whatever was simmering beneath it, abs tightening with every breath, faint tan lines visible low across his hips.
“Ah,” he said, looking at the ruined shirt in my hands. “I love this shirt.”
The admission was small, almost boyish, and it cracked something in the tension between us. I smiled despite myself. “We will save it. Hold on.”
I carried the shirt to the sink, turned on the faucet, added a drop of soap from the bottle on the counter, and started working the stain under the running water. Matteo leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his bare chest, watching me.
“She is hell bent on proving we are not boyfriends,” he continued, voice steadier now but still edged. “Look at her tonight. Inviting you here, playing romantic songs, pouring wine on me. She wants everyone to see us crack. She wants to prove it is fake.”
I listened, hands moving slowly over the fabric, rinsing and scrubbing, trying to get the red to fade. The water ran pink down the drain. Matteo kept talking, words tumbling out like he had needed someone to hear them.
“I never should have stayed in this apartment after we broke up. I thought it would be easier. Neutral ground. But she never let go. Always hovering, always questioning. Every time I spoke to someone on the phone, she would appear, smiling like it did not bother her, but I could see it in her eyes.
And now this. Throwing a party just to watch us. To catch us slipping.”
His voice softened on the last sentence. He uncrossed his arms, stepped closer until he was right beside me at the sink, close enough that our shoulders brushed.
“What,” he said, almost to himself, “she thinks I do not like you? That it is an act?”
My hands stilled under the water. I looked up. Matteo was watching me, eyes locked on mine, vulnerable in a way I had never seen before.
“You know what,” he whispered, voice barely carrying over the sound of the faucet. “Maybe it is not an act.”
The room went still. The only sound was the slow drip from the shirt in my hands and the muffled bass from the living room beyond the locked door. Matteo stood there shirtless, skin warm and damp, gaze searching my face like he was waiting for me to say something, anything.
I could not speak. My heart hammered so loud I was sure he could hear it. The shirt dangled forgotten between my fingers, water dripping steadily into the sink.
He took half a step closer. The space between us shrank to nothing. His hand reached out, fingers brushing my wrist, light but deliberate.
“Adrian...”
The touch sent heat racing up my arm. We stayed like that, frozen, the air thick with everything we had not said.
The door was still locked. We were alone, truly alone, and Matteo’s next words could change everything.