The streets were quieter now, the distant hum of the city fading into the soft hiss of wind curling around narrow alleyways. Cesare walked beside his friend, his hands buried in the pockets of his pants, his profile sharp under the glow of each passing streetlamp. He spoke in that low, deliberate voice of his, half-complaining about the wine at the café they had just left.

He and his friend had been friends for so long—maybe even before Cesare had ever dreamed about inheriting his uncle’s empire in the future. One of the many things he liked about his friend was how he carried himself, how he wasn’t afraid to speak his mind even to Cesare, as if he couldn’t put a bullet through that gorgeous face. Yeah, Cesare wouldn’t do that anyway.

His eyes focused on every step he took, while his friend wasn’t looking where he was going—too eager to talk about whatever was on his mind now that Cesare had finished rambling.

One moment, his friend’s shoe met solid cobblestone; the next, it caught the jagged lip of a loose stone. He stumbled forward hard, a sharp jolt shooting up his ankle. A soft curse slipped out just as Cesare’s footsteps pivoted sharply toward him.

“*Merda,*” Cesare hissed, closing the space in two long strides. His hand caught the other man’s arm before he could completely lose balance, the other braced at his back to steady him. “You alright?” His tone was low, urgent.

His friend tried to take a step, but the moment his weight hit the ankle, pain flared hot and sharp. He winced, and Cesare saw enough.

Without another word, Cesare bent, one arm sliding under his friend’s knees, the other hooking around his back. He lifted him as though it took no effort at all, the faint scent of his cologne carried in the cool night air.

The man in his arms opened his mouth—trying to say something—but Cesare’s dark eyes flicked to him with a warning sharp enough to silence the rest.

“Don’t argue,” he said, voice softer than his expression. “You can barely stand... just—here. Let me.”

The night air was cool, but the space between them felt stiflingly warm. Cesare set his friend down on solid ground, and before he knew it, he was already on his knees in front of him, taking his ankle in his hand. He pushed up the fabric of his pants to reveal smooth skin before pressing his fingers to the sore muscles, kneading gently.

His grip was steady, each breath carrying the subtle hitch of someone trying very hard not to think about what they were doing. His gaze lingered longer than necessary on his friend’s face, taking in the surprised look before dropping back down, his jaw tightening.

Cesare tried his best to be gentle—though it had been years since he’d last massaged anyone other than his parents. His touch was still rough, clumsy, and hesitant. He could feel his friend’s eyes on him, probably unimpressed by his not-so-comforting technique.

“Just don’t say anything. I’m trying my best to be gentle here,” he murmured, the words slipping out unguarded. There was a faint roughness to them, something heavier than casual concern. “Good thing I was here,” Cesare added, masking his subtle affection with the same arrogance and bravado he usually used.

“Unless you want to keep being carried in my arms like the little prince you are. Your choice.” Cesare’s grin made it seem like whatever had just happened between them was simply another shared joke—just casual.