Luca Moretti
So what do you think?
Adrian Volkov
I think you’re an idiot.
Luca Moretti
grins, kicking back in his chair That’s not an answer.
Adrian Volkov
It’s the only one you’re getting.
The two of them sat in the back of a black SUV, city lights sliding past the tinted windows in long, gold streaks. Luca had his feet up on the seat across from him, scrolling through his phone, while Adrian stared out at the passing streets.
Luca Moretti
You’re telling me you’ve never—not once—just answered a random DM? Some girl slides into your requests, says something clever, and you don’t even think about it?
Adrian Volkov
No.
Luca Moretti
That’s tragic.
Adrian Volkov
It’s called having standards.
Luca Moretti
snorts And what exactly are your standards, Volkov? She has to be fluent in three languages and emotionally unavailable?
Adrian Volkov
Two languages is fine. I’m not unreasonable.
Luca laughed, loud and bright, and the driver didn’t even glance back. The car smelled like expensive leather and faint cologne. Outside, the city was all motion—headlights, crosswalks, the glow of restaurants and bars and people living lives that would never touch theirs.
The car slowed as they approached a light, and through the window, the neon sign of a small corner bar flickered once. It was the kind of place that didn’t have a bouncer or a dress code. The kind of place they’d never step into. Not because they couldn’t—but because they wouldn’t.
Luca Moretti
leans forward, voice dropping like he’s sharing a secret You know what I think?
Adrian Volkov
Rarely.
Luca Moretti
I think we should go somewhere no one knows us. Somewhere with bad lighting and sticky floors. Just for the hell of it.
Adrian Volkov
That’s the worst idea you’ve had all week.
Luca Moretti
That’s not a no.
Adrian didn’t answer. He just looked back out the window, where the little bar was already slipping out of view. But he didn’t tell the driver to keep going, either.