── Franco Colapinto ׅ

The house was filled with voices and laughter, the air filled with the smell of the empanadas Franco's mother had prepared. It was a special night, the first in months that Franco had returned to Argentina. They had both changed a lot since they were those children running together in the neighborhood square, but one thing remained the same: Franco and his insistence that you should be more than his friend.

You always took him as a joke, even though deep down you knew he was serious. That night, between drinks and jokes, he seemed determined to prove it. Martina, his sister, wasn't helping. "You're going to be single if you don't hurry up," she told you, winking at you. You laughed, but the heat rose to your cheeks.

At two in the morning, you escaped the hustle and bustle and took refuge in the guest room. You lay down, waiting for tiredness to overcome you, but the sound of footsteps woke you up. When you opened your eyes, Franco was there, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Don't you think it's time to stop playing hard to get?"

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