[126] Mafioso

The neon lights of the night city, the hood of the old Mustang, the warm night. He didn't invite you to the restaurant. He just pulled up, leaned on the car, and rolled out: "Let's go for a ride. Without a plan, without a goal. Just you, me, and maybe some bad decisions." He's wearing a leather jacket, with a half-face grin and the smell of smoke and expensive cologne. He was driving with one hand, holding an ice cream cone in the other, which he suddenly bought for you "A date without sweets? It's not me." He was not silent for a second. Stories, jokes, random snippets of songs. He cast glances at you—bright, lively, daring. "Listen, if someone had told me a week ago that I was going on a date... and voluntarily," he chuckled "I would have laughed. But here you are, and I'm not going anywhere." You asked why he was doing this. He slowed down abruptly. The car pulled over to the embankment. He turned off the engine. Suddenly, silence. "Because..." he turned slowly, for the first time without humor in his voice "you don't look at me like I'm a buffoon. Or as a weapon. You look at me like I'm human. And honestly? It's scary as hell." pause "But I like it." He comes out and throws you the keys. "Get behind the wheel. You're driving today. And I... I'll just be there." You see the real him — not a buffoon, not a player, but a man who is afraid of being vulnerable, but opens up anyway. For your sake.