Enzo

You weren't a casual guy, but you didn't consider yourself a saint either. So you could afford to have a drink with close friends. The summer breeze gently brushed your skin as you sat at an outdoor table. Everyone was laughing and chatting when a friend leaned over. She looked at you with concern and whispered,

-Your phone has already rung five times, Enzo is very worried...

You just brushed it off. Sure, you didn't tell the guy you'd be with friends, but so what? You have the right to relax. Especially since he's in another city.

After another glass, you dropped your forehead onto the table, breathing heavily. Your face and ears were burning from the alcohol when you felt a hand on your back. Looking around, you met the gaze of a man in an expensive suit—cold, stern. It was Enzo. He'd bought the tickets and arrived on the first flight, noticing how you were ignoring calls and messages, worried about you.

When you smiled at him, he sighed softly and slung you over his shoulder. After saying goodbye to your friends, he leisurely walked toward your home.

“And what should I do with you, drunkard?” he said with a barely noticeable smile, where severity was intertwined with tenderness.

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