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sharpiestools · 18 days ago

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Reader x Riccardo Calafiori - Series Masterlist

Chapter Eleven - I Know a Place

The next morning moved slowly. She was alone in her brother’s apartment, sunlight starting to pour in through the massive windows and hitting the hardwood floors in golden patches. The place was quiet, his style more minimal than hers, but still warm, lived-in. She liked how temporary it felt. No pressure to be in her usual persona here.

She had just finished her morning tea and was leaning against the kitchen island, dressed in soft linen pants and a fitted tank top, when her phone lit up.

Riccardo: Chapter two starts with coffee or chaos?

She smiled before she even finished reading it. Typical.

Her: Is “chaos” your way of asking if I’m free?

Riccardo: It’s my way of asking if I can see you again.

She didn’t answer immediately. She walked over to the window, coffee in hand, watching the early London haze slowly lift. Then, fingers flying:

Her: You already know where I am.

Another pause.

Riccardo: Guess I’ll take the elevator then.

Five minutes later, she heard the soft knock. She opened the door barefoot, her hair still slightly messy, face makeup-free and glowing from her skincare. Riccardo stood there with two iced coffees in hand and a faint smile pulling at his lips.

— I figured it was safer to bring both — he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

— In case one of us needed extra caffeine?

— In case one of us chickened out — he said, glancing around. — Your brother’s not home?

She shook her head. — Meetings all day.

— Good — he said simply, setting the coffees on the counter. — I didn’t want to share you.

She let that sit between them for a beat too long, then breezed past it. — We’re not sharing coffee either. The vanilla one’s mine.

He raised his hands in mock surrender. — Wouldn’t dream of it.

They made their way to the small couch in the open-plan living room. She sat cross-legged, posture relaxed, while Riccardo dropped beside her with that casual, comfortable way of his—like the space was already familiar.

— Feels like we’ve done this a thousand times — she murmured.

— Maybe we just skipped ahead — he offered, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

She gave him a sideways look. — I wasn’t going to bring that up.

He smirked, leaning back against the cushions. — Then let’s pretend we never met.

— Impossible.

— Why?

— Because I still remember what you said in Milan — she said, gaze flicking toward him. — And I definitely remember what you did.

He let out a low laugh, then turned serious. — Okay, then maybe we don’t start from scratch. But we don’t rush this either.

She nodded. — No pressure.

They sat in companionable silence again. Her knee brushed against his. He didn’t move. Neither did she.

— Where are we going later? — she asked.

— I thought we’d drive out somewhere.

— You’re driving? — she teased, mock surprise in her tone.

He gave her a look. — I drove us last night.

She smiled behind her coffee. — Right. Just making sure it wasn’t a fluke.

He leaned in just slightly. — I drive. You’ll see.

She pretended to consider it. — Fine. As long as I get to control the playlist.

Riccardo tapped the lid of his cup. — Deal.

And just like that, the morning stretched with a subtle current of anticipation between them—unspoken, but understood. By the time she went to get ready, the mood had shifted—warmer, lighter. Riccardo stayed behind in the living room, scrolling on his phone while she moved into the guest room. She didn’t overthink the outfit, just throwing on a open striped button-down over what she was already wearing and putting on her sneakers, cool and a little undone.

When she came back, slipping her phone and a lip balm into her small shoulder bag, he opened the door for her like it was second nature. They walked down the hall side by side and took the elevator down together—quiet. Outside, the sky was clear. London was unusually generous today, all soft light and dry air.

When they stepped out into the lobby, she pulled her sunglasses from her bag and slipped them on, even though the spring sun wasn’t exactly blinding. He looked over, amused.

— Disguise? — he teased, unlocking the car with a quiet click.

— Habit — she said, sliding into the passenger seat. — And I’m wearing no makeup. Don’t make it weird.

He laughed under his breath, starting the engine. —You look good without it.

She glanced at him from beneath her frames, not smiling, but not not-smiling either.

— Flattery. Dangerous game.

— I’m not playing — he said. — Yet.

The tension in the car was different from the night before—less electric, more weighted. Like the shift had already happened, and they were both just carefully adjusting to the new energy between them. Not rushing. Not resisting it either.

As he drove, one hand steady on the wheel, she let herself turn slightly toward him. Her knee bumped gently against his leg, and she didn’t move it.

— You always drive? — she asked. — No driver, no blacked-out cars?

He glanced at her, smirking. — I like the quiet. And the control, I guess.

She made a soft sound, almost a hum. — Control. That tracks.

He arched a brow. — You don’t?

— I like being driven — she said, eyes still on the road ahead. — But I don’t mind giving directions.

Riccardo’s mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile too much at that. — Right. Very collaborative of you.

She shrugged. — I’m generous that way.

The corner of his hand brushed hers on the center console when he shifted gears, and neither of them pulled away. Just that brief graze of skin, a little spark lodged between two otherwise casual movements.

They drove a few more minutes like that, the air between them pulsing with all the things that didn’t need to be said yet. She reached for her phone to switch the song, scrolling until she found something mellow—Lauryn Hill humming through the speakers a second later, soft and golden like the light outside.

— Good choice — Riccardo said.

— I know. — She reclined back a little in the seat, glancing out the window again. — It’s a playlist I made for drives I don’t want to end.

That made him glance at her, for real this time. Something in his expression softened just a little too much, and he looked back at the road quickly, but not before she saw it.

Neither of them said anything after that. There was no need.

There was a beat of stillness between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then, she reached across the console and brushed a curl away from his forehead without thinking—soft, unhurried. Her fingers lingered at his temple for a moment too long before falling back to her lap.

He swallowed once, almost imperceptibly. — You keep doing that — he said under his breath.

She raised an eyebrow. — Doing what?

— Making it hard to think straight.

The light changed. He turned the wheel, a little tighter than necessary.

Her voice was light again when she replied. — Then maybe don’t think. Just drive.

He didn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth curved again. She looked back out the window, trying to hide the quiet satisfaction blooming across her face.

A few more minutes passed in silence—comfortable, suspended. The kind of silence only possible with someone you trust without realizing when it started.

— Are we almost there? — she asked after a while.

— Getting close — he said, and something about the way he said it made her pulse flicker. He wasn’t just talking about the location.

She shifted again, this time turning her head to look at him fully. — So where exactly are you taking me, Calafiori?

He gave her a sideways glance, slow and deliberate. — Getting impatient?

— I’m curious.

— You’ll like it — he said simply. — And no, I’m not telling you.

She leaned back in her seat, eyeing him with mock suspicion. — You don’t strike me as the type who likes planning dates.

— I’m not. Not usually.

— But you did this time.

He smiled without looking at her. — You didn’t seem like the kind of person who’d go for anything half-assed.

That made her lips twitch. — You’re right. I wouldn’t.

They fell into a gentle silence. The song shifted. Now it was Frank Ocean—Ivy—and her eyes lit up, just a little.

He caught it. — You love him, don’t you?

— I’m obsessed with him — she admitted. — Frank is like… a whole language.

— I feel like I missed that train — he said. — Everyone talks about Blonde like it changed their life.

— It did — she said, dead serious. — Mine, at least. It’s not an album, it’s an ache. You can’t listen to it and come out the same, I swear, I’d run into a fire for that album.

— I don’t think I’ve ever loved anything I’d run into a fire for — he said lightly.

She looked over at him, playful. — You don’t have a single album like that?

— Maybe a few FIFA soundtracks — he teased, then laughed. — No, I’m kidding. I like older stuff too. 80s rock. Some Italian classics. I like music that makes me feel like I’m somewhere else.

She nodded. — I like music that makes me feel like I’m exactly where I am.

The trees thinned out as the road straightened, curling past stone cottages and delicate fences covered in blooming wisteria. Morning light filtered through the branches overhead, the kind that made everything feel a little more cinematic. Riccardo slowed the car as they entered the village—quiet streets, soft hills in the distance, and a handful of people already out walking dogs or browsing shop windows.

She leaned forward slightly, watching it unfold through the windshield. — This is… not what I expected — she said quietly.

He glanced over at her, one hand still on the steering wheel. — Good or bad?

She smiled without looking at him. — Good. It’s peaceful.

— Yeah. I figured you get enough of everything else.

She nodded. — Let’s park and just walk around. Brunch will find us.

— Is that a spiritual belief?

She smirked. — Almost all of mine are.

He parked near the edge of a little square, where a café sat beneath a line of trees, already putting out tables. The air was cool and fresh, the kind of air that made everything feel slower. Lighter. They got out of the car without rushing, the kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled sitting easily between them. He locked the door with a soft beep, and without thinking, she looped her arm through his as they started down the street.

— You really don’t mind walking around aimlessly? — she asked, teasing.

— I think that’s the point — he replied, eyes straight ahead. — Just wandering.

She laughed, nudging him slightly with her shoulder. — You don’t seem like someone who wanders.

— No?

— No — she said, glancing up at him. — You seem very… deliberate.

He looked down at her. — I am. That’s why I’m here.

Her gaze lingered for a second, then she let it go, tugging him gently toward a narrow lane where vines climbed up brick walls and there were small shops with hand-painted signs. The kind of place that felt like time moved differently.

— You hungry? — he asked.

She looked at him like he was ridiculous. — You brought me all the way here and you’re just now asking that?

Riccardo grinned. — I wanted to give you a reason to complain. Seems like you enjoy it.

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling again.

They didn’t pick the place for any particular reason—it was just there, past a crooked brick building with sun-faded window panes and a little handwritten sign that read “brunch served all day.” There were potted herbs along the front steps and two mismatched chairs outside. It was charming in the sort of way you don’t even try to describe out loud. She slowed when they passed it, drawn by the smell more than anything.

— This one? — Riccardo asked, already turning toward the door.

— Yeah — she said, eyes scanning the menu chalked on the board out front. — Looks good enough.

He held the door open, the tiny bell above it chiming as they stepped inside. The place was small and old in the best way—wooden floors, mismatched chairs, and a counter with cakes under glass domes. A soft jazz record crackled somewhere behind the noise of the espresso machine. They took a table by the window without needing to ask, sun pouring in and lighting up the fine dust in the air. She slid her sunglasses off and rested them on the table, glancing out briefly before looking back at him.

— Good pick.

— I didn’t pick this — he said, leaning back in his chair. — You stopped walking.

— Right — she murmured, almost amused, and picked up the menu.

They ordered quickly, something warm and savory for both of them. When the server walked away, he watched her stretch slightly in her chair, tucking one leg underneath her and tilting her head, eyes lazily tracing the street outside. When their food arrived—steaming plates. She reached over to steal a bite from his plate without asking.

He blinked. — Seriously?

— You ordered better — she said, chewing slowly. —Get used to it.

His jaw tightened for a beat, like he was trying not to laugh. — I will literally never order first again.

— Smart.

He watched her for a moment, her fingers delicately adjusting her bracelet before she took a sip of her matcha latte. They didn’t rush. There was no need to. The morning had slipped comfortably into noon, the light warming to a golden tone that made everything outside look softer. The café had begun to fill, but their table by the window still felt like a world of its own.

She leaned back slightly, sipping her cup as if it might help her decide whether to speak or stay quiet. Riccardo watched her, elbow propped against the table, fingers loosely holding his fork. Not really eating anymore. Just watching.

— You always this quiet? — she asked suddenly, setting her cup down with a soft clink.

— Only when I’m paying attention — he said, shrugging one shoulder.

— To what?

He took a beat. — The way you eat exactly two bites of everything and then get bored.

She narrowed her eyes. — I do not.

He raised both eyebrows, then nodded toward her plate—barely touched. She glanced at it, then back at him with mock offense.

— I’m a sampler. It’s sophisticated — she said. — You should try it sometime.

Riccardo grinned. — I’m Italian. I finish my plate. It’s called respect.

She laughed, tilting her face toward the window like she was trying to hide it, even as the sound spilled freely. It came so naturally around him, that ease, like they’d already figured out the rhythm of each other without meaning to.

— You’re annoyingly charming, you know that? —she muttered.

— You’re the first person who’s ever said that.

She rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. — Liar.

Riccardo watched her like he was watching a scene unfold. Not performing, just observing.

— What? — she asked, meeting his eyes again.

He shook his head slightly, lips curving into something softer. — I’m just… glad you said yes.

She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze dropped, smile tucked into the corner of her mouth as she reached for her water.

— It’s a good day — she said finally. — I’m glad I said yes too.

They fell into conversation easily after that, somewhere between people-watching and letting themselves unwind. He talked about the pressure of moving to London, how different it felt from Italy, and she listened carefully. In turn, he asked her—quietly, without prying—if she ever felt tired of being known everywhere she went.

—Not tired — she said eventually. — But sometimes… I wish I could be a mystery again.

He studied her for a long moment before replying. — You still are — he said simply.

She blinked, then looked away with a soft smile, the kind that didn’t quite know where to land.

— Do you ever get tired of it? — she asked after a beat.

— What?

— The noise. The attention. All the… expectations?

Riccardo took a moment. — Sometimes. But I don’t think I’d trade it.

— No?

He shook his head. — You work so hard for something. And when you get it… there’s pressure, sure. But also—pride. You feel like the kid version of yourself would be proud.

Her gaze softened, and she nodded slowly, as if she knew exactly what he meant. — I think about legacy a lot — she said. — How I want to be remembered.

— You already will be — he said quietly.

She gave him a look that held both disbelief and something else—something unsaid. Then, in a lighter tone, she said — Okay. Let’s change the subject before I start quoting poetry or something.

He grinned. — I’d actually pay to see that.

— Of course you would — she muttered, biting back a smile.

Their plates were mostly cleared now, but neither of them moved. He reached out and gently pushed one of her rings back into place—it had shifted while she played with her napkin. The touch was brief, barely anything at all, but it made her still for a moment. When she looked at him again, there was something quieter in her eyes. Not uncertainty—just the weight of meaning, of having someone near who didn’t try to fill silence with noise.

— Where to now? — he asked eventually, voice low.

She leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers loosely laced. — You’re the one who drove. Shouldn’t I be asking you that?

Riccardo smirked. — You trust me that much already?

— Don’t make it weird — she said, standing up, her chair scraping gently against the floor. — Come on.

When they stepped back into the sunlight, the day felt wide open, like the kind of day that could stretch as long as they let it, and neither of them seemed in a hurry to get home. She slipped on her sunglasses, and Riccardo tucked his hands into his pockets. Their steps matched easily, unhurried.

He glanced over at her as they turned a corner, where the street dipped slightly. There were storefronts with iron-framed windows and peeling paint—bakeries, second-hand bookstores, a florist with buckets spilling blooms onto the sidewalk. The breeze lifted a lock of her hair, and she tucked it behind her ear without thinking.

— Wait — she said suddenly, stopping mid-step.

He followed her gaze.

There it was. A record shop—small and narrow, tucked between a frame store and a dusty old tailor. Its window was cluttered with vinyls, posters, and a little turntable turning lazily, like it had been waiting for them.

— You wanna…? — she asked, already stepping toward it.

— I mean, we kind of have to now — he said, grinning.

A little brass bell jingled as they stepped inside. The air changed immediately—cooler, quieter, infused with that perfect, musty warmth of worn cardboard sleeves and old wood. Jazz played softly in the background. The walls were covered in shelves stacked with vinyls like a library of lives.

She lit up.

— I’m going to lose all my money in here. — she murmured, trailing her fingers along the spine of a crate.

Riccardo watched her like she was part of the display—delicate, reverent, glowing with the kind of joy that was rare and unfiltered.

— Is it weird that I feel like I’m in your version of church? — he asked.

She laughed. — It kind of is.

— I want to see your collection one day — he said, more quietly now.

She glanced at him, then knelt to flip through a crate labeled ‘soul & r&b classics.’

— You will — she said casually, but it was a promise tucked into her voice.

He moved beside her, picking up a record at random. — What’s the test? — he asked.

— What do you mean?

— The vinyl test. Like… what makes one worth taking home?

She smiled without looking up. — It has to feel like it would soundtrack a moment I haven't lived yet.

He blinked, surprised by the answer. — That’s… — He paused. — That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard about a record.

She finally looked up at him, a teasing smile playing at her lips. — That’s because you’ve never heard White Ferrari on vinyl after midnight.

— Maybe it is.

They lingered like that, side by side, flipping through decades of sound, their shoulders brushing occasionally, their conversation slowing. Everything else outside the shop faded into quiet.

— Okay — he said, turning to look at her. — Tell me your most prized vinyl. Don’t think—just say it.

She didn’t hesitate. — Songs in the Key of Life. Stevie Wonder.

— Classic.

— It’s the heart of the collection — she said seriously. — I treat it like a living thing.

He was flipping through a crate labeled "Miscellaneous – Imports & Rare Pressings” when she let out a soft gasp. Not dramatic, but enough to make him look up.

She was holding something gently, like it was a secret: The Stranger by Billy Joel.

— Oh wow — he said, stepping closer. — That’s the one?

She nodded slowly, her thumb brushing the worn edge of the sleeve. — One of my favorites at home. But this — she turned it slightly, — this is a European pressing. I’ve only seen it once before, and it wasn’t in good condition. This one’s… pristine.

Riccardo studied her expression—wide-eyed, reverent. The way she looked at that record, it was like it held something holy.

— You should get it. This one’s part of this moment now. You can’t not take it home.

She looked at him, the corner of her mouth lifting slowly, like she couldn’t help it.

— Fine — she said. — But only if we listen to it together.

He smiled, soft and certain. — Deal.

As she brought it to the counter, he wandered a few steps behind, half-looking through the r&b section when another sleeve caught his eye. He picked it up slowly, curious—and then grinned.

When she turned from the counter, bag in hand, he held up the record he’d found: Blonde.

Her heart skipped without warning. — My favorite — she murmured.

— I know — He held her gaze. — That’s why I’m getting it. Maybe now I'll know how hearing White Ferrari on vinyl after midnight feels like.

They stepped back into the street, paper sleeves tucked under their arms. The light had shifted again—late afternoon now, golden and slow. Neither of them said anything for a few beats. Then she murmured, without looking at him:

— I thought that I was dreaming when you said you loved me.

Riccardo looked at her, smiling faintly. — You really do soundtrack your life.

She just hummed. — Doesn’t everybody?

But the truth was—only some people did. The kind of people who felt everything, deeply and quietly. Who saw meaning everywhere, and weren’t afraid to call it beautiful. And he was starting to realize she was one of them.

— You know — Riccardo said, after they turned the corner — I think you might be the most interesting person I’ve ever met.

— That sounds like a line.

— It’s not. I mean it.

— Then you need to meet more people.

He laughed, but she reached out—just briefly—and tugged at his jacket, like she was teasing and anchoring him at once. — But thank you.

The sun was dipping lower now. A few lights flickered on in cafés and bookstores. Their city stroll felt like something stolen from a Sunday afternoon—unhurried, unplanned, golden.

— I still can’t believe we found that vinyl —she said, gesturing to the bag.

— I thought you were going to cry in the store.

— I almost did — she admitted with a dramatic sigh. — It’s like it was waiting for me. That’s fate.

— I thought you didn’t believe in fate.

— I don’t — she replied, lips curving. — But I do believe in divine timing… and excellent curation.

He grinned. — You speak like a woman who has very expensive taste.

— I speak like a woman who knows what she wants.

Riccardo raised an eyebrow. — Is that a warning?

— A promise.

That made him chuckle, deep and low, as they rounded the corner toward the small parking lot. His car sat there gleaming, casually parked like it belonged in a film still.

— So — she asked as they approached, — was this part of your grand seduction plan? Lure me with carbs and then take me to hunt vinyls like it’s nothing?

— Would it work if it was?

She tilted her head, pausing right before he opened the door for her.

— I think it might’ve.

He held her gaze for a second longer than necessary, then reached for the handle and opened it.

— Get in before I kiss you right here in the street.

She blinked—just once—and slid in with a composed, amused smile, as if her heart hadn’t skipped a full beat. He closed the door behind her with a soft thud.

As he rounded the front of the car, she watched him through the windshield. Her reflection stared back faintly in the glass—messy hair, flushed cheeks, something quietly alight in her eyes. As they pull out of the quiet town and into the winding countryside roads, she rests her head lightly against the window, watching trees blur by. — Don’t let me fall asleep, — she murmurs.

He glances at her, eyes crinkling at the corners. — If you do, I’ll let you. But I’m stealing one of your records.

She groans. — You're lucky I like you.

— I know.

They drive back in a silence that's not really silent at all—filled with the quiet rhythm of tires on the road, soft music, and the unspoken ease that’s settled between them like it’s been there for years.

— You okay? — he asks, watching her.

She nods slowly. — Yeah. Just… kind of wishing we didn’t have to go back yet.

— Then we’ll stay a little longer next time — he replies simply, like it’s not even a question.

She looks at him, surprised at how easily he says it. Like he’s already decided there will be a next time.

— Are you hungry again? — he asked suddenly.

She looked at him. — Always.

— Good — he said. — I know a place.

The pizzeria was tucked between two quiet streets in London—tiny, candlelit, with handwritten menus and the smell of baked cheese spilling out the door. Riccardo opened it for her with a flourish.

— After you — he said.

She stepped in, nose already in the air. — If this place is terrible, I’m blaming your taste in pizza and Frank Ocean.

He grinned. — No pressure.

They slid into a small booth by the window, the city glowing outside like a film set. The waiter barely handed them menus before she pointed to something.

— Pesto sourdough focaccia. That’s what we’re getting. And olives. And maybe this spicy little something here.

The waiter returned, took their order, and left them bathed in the warm clink and hum of the place. Someone in the back was playing a mellow rock record that sounded warped and perfect.

— You really have a superpower for finding romantic little corners — she said.

— I just roam the city and hope something good happens.

— And here I was thinking it was part of some elaborate master plan.

Riccardo leaned in, mock-conspiratorial. — It is. I’m trying to impress a certain woman with impeccable taste and intimidating musical knowledge.

She raised an eyebrow. — Sounds like a nightmare.

— She’s terrifying.

— Stunning, though.

He nodded. — And possibly a witch.

She let out a laugh—loud, real, unguarded.

— I am a little witchy — she admitted. — You should see me during Mercury retrograde.

— Noted. I’ll wear protection.

She mimed casting a spell across the table. — Too late. You’ve been charmed.

He didn’t say anything to that—just gave her a look that was half amusement, half something heavier.

Their food arrived then, hot and golden, and they broke off pieces of focaccia like they’d done this a hundred times before. She stole one of the spicy olives from his plate without asking. He let her.

— So — he said, mouth full, — what would teenage-you say about your life right now?

She paused, chewing. — Probably: what the hell is happening and why are you dating football players instead of fictional poets?

He laughed again, then shook his head. — Teenage-me would definitely think I peaked.

She tilted her head, genuinely curious. — You think you peaked?

He shrugged, grinning. — Nah. But he would. He thought being 25 meant marriage and a villa by the sea, he would thrive knowing that we're on FIFA”

— Don't you want a villa by the sea?

— I’d rather have someone who sings along badly to the vinyls we bought earlier.

That made her look down, smiling into her drink.

And just like that, the air changed—not heavier, but warmer. Comfortable. Familiar in a way that snuck up on them both. It’s easy, the way the conversation flows. The jokes. The rhythm. There’s a comfort that surprises both of them, like they skipped a few steps somewhere and landed in that golden space where nothing has to be earned.

After a quiet beat, he looks at her. — You know what I was thinking earlier?

— What?

— That this didn’t feel like a first day hanging out. Not really.

She tilts her head, amused. — What does it feel like then?

He shrugs, eyes never leaving hers. — Like something we’ve done before. Like I already knew what your laugh sounded like before I heard it.

She doesn't answer right away. Her fingers toy lightly with the stem of her glass. Then, softly, — That’s the kind of thing you say when you want to ruin a girl’s life.

He laughs, leaning back, — So dramatic.

— You’ve met me — she says, raising her brows.

— Yeah — he says. — And I still said it.

The food keeps coming. They keep talking. By the time they leave, her stomach hurts from laughing, and her cheeks are warm from wine. As they step out into the cool London air, he pulls his jacket off without a word and drapes it over her shoulders.

She doesn’t protest. Just slips her arms into the sleeves and says, quietly, — Thank you.

They stepped into the building side by side, the doors sliding shut behind them with a soft swoosh. It was quiet in the lobby, save for the soft echo of their footsteps across the marble. Riccardo hit the elevator button and glanced at her, one hand still tucked in his pocket, the other brushing back his hair.

– You’ve walked more in one day than most people do in a week – he teased, voice low and amused. – I’m impressed.

She shot him a grin, the corners of her mouth curving with mischief. – You act like I’m not a trained dancer. I could go another ten miles if you asked.

– Tempting – he said, half under his breath.

The elevator doors slid open and they stepped inside. It was just the two of them. Again. She leaned casually against the mirrored wall, watching him through her lashes.

– You’re quiet all of a sudden – she said, tilting her head slightly. – Running out of clever lines?

He smirked, eyes flicking to hers. – Just trying not to say something I’ll regret.

– Like what?

The elevator hummed as it began its ascent.

– I don’t know… Like suggesting we skip tomorrow’s plans and do this again instead.

She arched an eyebrow. – You think I’d say no to that?

He looked at her then, fully, and she felt it—an unspoken thing charging the air.

The elevator dinged. Her floor. She stepped out slowly, turning halfway to face him as he remained inside.

– Goodnight, Riccardo – she said, still smiling. – Thanks for the walking tour.

– Anytime – he replied, eyes not leaving her. – Sleep well.

She waited until the doors began to close, then called out, – Try not to miss me.

He huffed a soft laugh as the metal slid shut.

She stepped inside, shrugging off her coat as the door clicked shut behind her. The lights in the living room were warm and soft, casting that cozy late-night glow over the apartment she’d grown to find comforting in the past weeks.

– Finally – her brother called from the kitchen, half-amused. – I thought you got recruited into a cult or something.

She rolled her eyes, dropping her bag by the couch. – I just went out, not on a pilgrimage.

He leaned against the counter with a drink in hand, his expression smug. – Out, huh? That what we’re calling it now?

She smirked, walking toward him. – Yes. Out. As in brunch. Records. A little roaming around.

He handed her a glass of water, eyeing her knowingly. – Brunch that turned into dusk. Sounds promising.

She took a sip, letting the glass linger at her lips. – You’re annoying.

– And you’re glowing – he nudged her shoulder. – So. Calafiori.

She tried not to smile, but her eyes gave her away. – He’s sweet. He’s… fun.

Her brother raised his brows. – Fun? That’s a new one.

She laughed softly. – He’s nice, okay? And surprisingly thoughtful.

– And hot. Don’t forget hot.

– Jesus – she muttered, smiling into her cup.

Her brother gave a knowing nod. – Yeah, you’ve needed someone like that.

She nudged him with her shoulder. – Don’t get soft on me.

– I’m not – he said, though his tone was gentle. – I’m just saying. If you like him, I hope he’s smart enough to like you back the right way.

She was quiet for a moment, then said, – It’s nothing serious.

– Yet – he added casually.

She shook her head, laughing softly. – Stop. We’re just hanging out.

– You literally came home high on music and holding a baguette.

– It’s focaccia.

– Even worse. That’s wife behavior.

She groaned, hiding her smile behind her glass. – You’re impossible.

– Just doing my brotherly duties.

They stood in companionable silence for a second before he added, a little more softly, – You know you can stay here as long as you need, right?

She nodded, her expression sincere. – I know.

He looked at her, something fond in his expression. – Good. Because you’re terrible at picking up your clothes from the bathroom, and I need to mentally prepare if you’re extending your stay.

– Shut up – she said, laughing again, and bumped his arm.

– Night, trouble.

– Night.

#riccardo calafiori #calafiori #riccardo calafiori fanfic #riccardo calafiori x reader #riccardo calafiori fluff #riccardo calafiori angst #footballer x reader #football fanfic #arsenal x reader #arsenal #arsenal fanfic #richycala #richy calafiori

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sharpiestools · 20 days ago

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aaaand im thinking of doing a moodboard for it too so y'all can see my vision

next chapter of the calafiori fanfic is currently with 5k words

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sharpiestools · 20 days ago

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next chapter of the calafiori fanfic is currently with 5k words

#riccardo calafiori

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sharpiestools · 21 days ago

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Match highlights 😔

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sharpiestools · 21 days ago

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love them sm

Caption: city day with my boys

Source Instagram Sophia Haverz: 25.04.2025

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sharpiestools · 25 days ago

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Riccardo Calafiori x Reader - Series Masterlist

Chapter Ten: First Chapter

When she stepped out of the elevator Riccardo was already waiting near the entrance, jacket slung over one shoulder and hair still a bit tousled from running his hand through it too many times. The second he saw her, something in his chest pulled tight.

He looked up at the sound of the doors opening. No dramatic entrance, no coy smile—just a quiet glance that lingered a moment too long.

“You’re on time,” she said.

He smirked. “So are you.”

She gave a soft hum of acknowledgment, eyes scanning him quickly—subtly, but not enough for him to miss. “You look good.”

Riccardo’s smile curved slow, warm. “So do you.”

That made her roll her eyes a little, like she was brushing it off—but the flush across her cheeks said otherwise. She pushed a hand through her hair, tucking a loose wave behind her ear. He followed the motion with his eyes, maybe a little too obviously.

“Shall we?” she asked, already moving toward the door that took them to the building's garage.

He reached it before her, holding it open. She walked past, their arms brushing, and he caught a faint scent of her perfume—soft, familiar now. It hung in the air between them as they stepped outside.

When he opened the car door for her, she paused.

“Chivalry?” she teased.

Riccardo leaned in, voice low. “Only when it works.”

She slid in without replying, but her smirk stayed.

When he slid into the driver’s seat, they exchanged a glance. A spark. Something held there a beat too long before he turned the key.

As they pulled away from the building, music low in the background and the city slowly opening up around them, her fingers drummed idly on her knee. She glanced sideways at him.

“You’ve been quiet.”

He smiled, eyes still on the road. “Trying not to crash.”

She tilted her head, half-suspicious, half-charmed. “Because of traffic… or because you keep looking at me when you think I’m not noticing?”

This time, Riccardo actually laughed. “Definitely the second one.”

The car moved smoothly through the streets, headlights gliding over stone facades and tree-lined corners. The evening was cool and hushed, the kind of London night that felt stolen—like it belonged only to them. Then he pulled up the car at the foot of a narrow building tucked away from the noise. It didn’t look like much from the outside—discreet, almost forgettable—but Riccardo parked with a quiet confidence, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Trust me,” he said, catching her look.

“I do,” she replied, before she could think twice.

The elevator ride up was quiet again, but not awkward. They stood close—close enough that her shoulder brushed his arm lightly every time the car shifted. Neither of them moved.

When the elevator doors opened, they stepped out into warmth, golden light, and the soft clink of glasses. The rooftop was intimate and understated—clean lines, low music, lush greenery winding along the glass edges. Candles flickered between tables. The skyline stretched in every direction, London glittering beneath a moody night sky.

She stepped forward slowly, taking it in.

“This is… wow.”

He watched her more than the view. “I hoped you’d like it.”

A hostess led them to a table tucked along the far edge of the rooftop, semi-hidden by tall plants and shadow. It felt secluded without trying too hard—intentional in its intimacy.

As they sat down, her fingers skimmed the base of her glass absentmindedly, eyes still scanning the skyline.

“I always forget how pretty this city can be at night.”

“It is,” he said, still looking at her. “But you kind of make it unfair for everything else.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile was impossibly soft.

“Careful,” she teased. “You keep saying things like that, and I might actually believe you.”

“Maybe that’s the point.”

“You already know what you’re having?” she asked, glancing up through her lashes, voice calm but low, like it wasn’t meant for anyone else to hear.

“I don’t know. I’m trying not to mess up the first impression,” he said, dryly, without looking at her.

“Bit late for that, no?” she replied, and there was something in the curl of her lip that made it impossible to tell if she meant Milan, or the elevator, or earlier that afternoon when he was waiting downstairs like it was the most casual thing in the world.

He looked up. She was already sipping her water, eyebrows raised like she hadn’t said anything at all.

He huffed a quiet laugh, sat back in his chair. “You’re impossible.”

They ate for a while between light conversation. Nothing too deep. Nothing too obvious. The kind of talk that filled the air without forcing anything—soft, curious. She made fun of how seriously he analyzed the flavor of his drink, and he teased her for having an embarrassing amount of knowledge about niche 70s records. It all moved in a kind of rhythm that felt less like a first date and more like something already in motion, just… quieter now. More focused.

At one point, she caught him watching her a little too closely as she talked, and her voice faltered just a little.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said, not even pretending to look away.

She tilted her head. “You look like you’re trying to read subtitles in a language you don’t speak.”

“That’s exactly what this feels like, actually.”

She laughed then, really laughed—head tipped back slightly, that easy, genuine kind of sound. He smiled too, but he didn’t stop watching her.

“You’re staring again,” she said, still smiling.

“Because you look good when you’re happy.”

That caught her off guard. Just for a second, something shifted in her expression. Less teasing, more real.

She looked down at her plate, then back up at him, eyes steadier now.

“You’re good at this.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Me?”

“Yeah.” She leaned forward a little, elbows resting on the table now. “You don’t say much, but when you do…”

There was a pause. He didn’t rush to fill it.

“...it sticks,” she finished, more softly.

This time, it was Riccardo who looked away—just briefly, like he needed to absorb that. Or maybe shake it off before it settled too deep.

And then she shifted the conversation again, smoothly, easily, like nothing had happened. But the current under the surface didn’t fade. It hummed—quiet and sharp.

By the time they finished eating, the sky outside was dark. The city lights glowed beneath them, glass catching reflections and spinning them in gold. They stepped out of the restaurant into the cool night, the city buzzing softly around them, lights scattered like stars at their feet. Neither of them said much at first as they walked back to his car, side by side, her shoulder close enough to brush his every few steps.

Riccardo opened the passenger door for her, a quiet, natural gesture, and she offered a soft “thank you” as she slid in, the dark denim of her jeans catching in the low light.

He rounded the car, got in, started the engine. The sound system hummed to life with something mellow—guitar-heavy and low—and neither of them rushed to speak.

As he pulled onto the road, she glanced sideways at him. “You drive like someone who listens to vinyl.”

Riccardo smiled. “That’s a compliment, right?”

“Depends on the vinyl.”

He shot her a quick glance. “What if I told you I’ve been trying to get into Brazilian records lately?”

“I’d say you’re just trying to impress me.”

“Is it working?”

She looked out the window, lips curved in that almost-smile. “A little.”

Silence stretched for a moment, but it was warm. Comfortably charged. Her hand rested on her knee, rings catching the streetlights, and his eyes drifted down for half a second before flicking back to the road.

“You really didn’t expect me to say yes, did you?” she asked after a while.

Riccardo kept his eyes ahead, but there was a slight grin tugging at his mouth. “I didn’t expect you to say it that easily.”

“I didn’t expect to mean it.”

She said it so simply, it lingered in the space between them.

He glanced at her now—really looked—and for a moment, she looked like she was trying to make sense of it all herself. Of the fact that she was there, with him. That they’d gone from casual run-ins and flirty texts to this stillness, this closeness, so quickly.

But maybe it wasn’t quick at all.

“You’re hard to get a read on,” he murmured.

“I get that a lot.”

“No,” he said, turning the corner smoothly, “I don’t think most people really try to read you. They just think they already have.”

That made her look at him. Not playful, not teasing—just looking. Quiet. Curious. A little vulnerable.

“You think you have?”

“I think I’m still on the first chapter.”

The car slowed at a red light, and her voice dropped, quiet but sure. “It’s a long book.”

Riccardo turned to her, the soft city light casting golden shadows across his face. “I’m not in a rush.”

The light turned green, and he didn’t look away until the car behind them tapped its horn lightly. He smiled, eyes on the road again, and she exhaled a quiet laugh.

They pulled into the underground garage a few minutes later, and he parked with that same quiet ease. She didn’t move to get out right away. Neither did he.

“Thanks for tonight,” she said, finally.

Riccardo looked at her, then—like he had something to say. Like there were at least five things he could say. But instead, he just nodded.

“You’re not gonna kiss me, are you?” she asked, half a joke, half something else.

He didn’t smile. Just studied her for a beat.

“No,” he said. “Not tonight.”

She arched a brow. “Why not?”

He leaned slightly closer, voice low. “Because I don’t want this to be easy.”

Something about that made her sit back, quiet. Her smile was small, thoughtful.

Then, without another word, she opened the door and stepped out. He followed, the sound of both car doors clicking shut echoing slightly in the garage.

They walked to the elevator together, the silence companionable now, heavy with something unspoken. Once they were inside, standing close in the small space, she finally broke it.

“Second chapter starts tomorrow?”

He met her gaze, smiling this time. “If you’ll let me read it.”

The elevator dinged, doors sliding open. Neither of them moved.

Then she stepped out first, turning back just once to say, “Don’t be late.”

And with that, she disappeared down the hall, leaving him standing there, still grinning.

#riccardo calafiori #riccardo calafiori fanfic #footballer x reader #riccardo calafiori fluff #riccardo calafiori x reader #riccardo calafiori angst #arsenal fanfic #football fanfic #calafiori #arsenal x reader #arsenal #richycala #richy calafiori

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sharpiestools · 1 month ago

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Riccardo Calafiori x Reader - Series Masterlist

Chapter Nine: Coffee

It was one of those quiet saturday mornings in London, the kind where the city hums with potential, and the air is just cold enough to make your breath visible. The sun had barely risen, casting a soft glow over the city, and she was just stepping out of her building, heading for a coffee before starting her day when she saw him across the street.

Riccardo was standing just a few feet away, dressed in a black hoodie and sweatpants, his hands stuffed in his pockets, hair still messy from sleep, a quiet calm on his face. He noticed her at the same time, both slowing instinctively, and their eyes met for a moment before she gave him a small nod.

She pulled her headphones down. “Twice in the same week,” she said with a small smile. “You’re starting to feel like a pattern.”

He smiled back, stepping closer. “I could say the same. Though, I live here, so... I guess I’m allowed.”

She laughed. “Touché.”

There was a beat. Not awkward, not rushed. Just a lingering stillness between them.

“Didn’t know you were an early riser.”

“I’m not,” she said with a laugh, stretching her arms out to loosen up. “But I’m trying to get better at it.”

“I was heading to the café on the corner,” she offered, gesturing lightly. “Want to come?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

They walked in sync, the streets slowly waking up around them. He glanced sideways at her as they crossed.

They reached the café, ordered drinks, and stepped back outside with warm cups in hand. They sat on the edge of a low stone planter across the street, people-watching and sipping in comfortable silence.

“I still can’t believe we’re neighbors,” he said, voice low, as if saying it out loud might break the spell. “I mean... I found out your brother lived next door and thought, alright, small world. But you? That felt like the universe trying to be funny.”

She glanced at him, amused. “Funny?”

Riccardo let out a soft laugh. “Yeah. Like, of all people. I meet you at a party, think I’ll never see you again, and then suddenly you’re standing in the same damn elevator as me days later.”

She smirked. “You looked like you saw a ghost.”

“I thought I did.” He glanced at her again, a little more serious now. “I mean... you’ve been on screens for years. I never imagined you’d just... exist in my real life.”

There was something almost bashful in the way he said it. It made her heart thud a little harder.

“Okay,” she teased, nudging him lightly with her elbow. “Now you’re just trying to charm me.”

“I’m not,” he said easily. “You were my celebrity crush. I can’t even lie about it. My sister is going to kill me when she finds out.”

She laughed then — really laughed — and Riccardo smiled like it was his favorite sound. “Still can’t believe I was your crush.”

“I can give you names of old teammates who’ll confirm it,” he said with a grin. “They used to clown me for it.”

You laughed, sipping your coffee. “And now?”

Riccardo shrugged, that quiet confidence of his kicking in. “Now I’m sitting here with you, drinking terrible London coffee and thinking maybe they were onto something.”

They sat for another moment, and she noticed how the wind pushed a few strands of hair into his face. He looked so effortlessly beautiful like that — even quieter than usual, even more thoughtful.

He turned to her suddenly. “It sounds ridiculous, but part of me keeps wondering if all of this is just... some kind of setup. Not like a trap,” he added quickly, grinning, “but like... fate playing games.”

She tilted her head. “You believe in that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe not usually. But this?” His gaze lingered on her. “This feels like more than a coincidence.”

Her heart fluttered in a way that caught her completely off guard. And for once, she didn’t try to say something clever or brush it off. She just smiled. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Me too.”

“I told my brother I met you, by the way,” you said casually.

Riccardo looked up, suddenly more alert. “He knows?”

“Mhm. I didn’t give him details. Just said you were… unexpectedly charming.”

He smiled, looking genuinely pleased. “Well, I told my friends too.”

You sipped your coffee, eyeing him curiously. “What did you say?”

Riccardo gave a bashful shrug. “That you’re even better in person. That I wasn’t imagining the connection.”

There it was—laid bare, honest, and a little vulnerable.

You sat back in your chair, lips parting slightly, surprised by the calm certainty in his voice. “That’s...”

“Too much?” he asked quickly, half-joking.

“No,” you said softly. “That’s real.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d actually talk to me today,” he said eventually.

She raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

He gave a small shrug. “I don’t know. You’ve got that thing about you. Like you disappear when you want to.”

She stirred her coffee. “That’s... not untrue.”

He watched her over the rim of his cup, eyes warm. “You’re easier to be around than I thought tho.”

The words came out lightly, but they hung in the air heavier than she expected. She blinked once, caught off guard. Her voice was softer than usual when she answered.

“No one’s ever said I'm easy to be around.”

Riccardo sat up a little, caught between surprise and concern. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” she said. “People say I’m intense. Complicated. Too much.”

“You are intense,” he said honestly. “But not in a bad way.”

She looked at him again—really looked. And he was just sitting there, hoodie slightly off-center, fingers curled around his cup, eyes kind.

“I like being around you,” he added. “It’s... calm. Even when it’s not.”

That made her laugh. A real one this time. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It does in my head.”

They kept talking. About London. About how annoying her brother could be. About his little sister back in Rome and how much he missed his mom’s cooking. About their careers. About his surprise at realizing she lived right across the hall.

“You know,” she said slowly, “you’re not what I expected either.”

Riccardo looked up from his cup. “Good unexpected or bad unexpected?”

“Surprisingly good,” she said. “I thought you’d be more…” She waved vaguely in the air. “Loud. Cocky. Footballer-y.”

He smirked. “I can be cocky if you want.”

“Don’t ruin it now.”

He laughed, shoulders relaxing again. “What did you expect?”

“Honestly?” She shrugged. “Just another guy who’d try to say all the right things because of who I am. You’re not doing that.”

“I don’t know all the right things,” he said. “I’m just trying not to mess it up.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “Mess what up?”

“This,” he said, nodding between them. “Whatever this is.”

“No one’s ever really… said that to me either,” she murmured. “At least not this early.”

He smiled softly. “I think about things too much. Always have. Overthinker. But when something feels good, I know it. I don’t need time for that part.”

“You’re lucky,” she said. “I second-guess everything.”

He leaned forward a little, completely focused. “Then let me make this part easy.”

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “Are you flirting with me or trying to hypnotize me?”

“Maybe both,” he said, grinning. “How am I doing?”

She paused, as if pretending to consider it. Then, without smiling, she said:

“Seven out of ten.”

He burst out laughing, caught off guard. “Seven? That’s harsh. You’re kind of scary when you want to be.”

“And you’re surprisingly persistent.” She leaned in, brushing something from the edge of his brow with two fingers—his hair, unruly in the wind. Without thinking, she tucked the strand behind his ear, letting her hand linger just a second too long.

Riccardo turned to look at her, eyes searching her face with an ease that made her pulse flicker. “You know,” he started, voice low, “I’ve been trying to think of a way to ask you out that didn’t sound completely unoriginal.”

“Oh?” she said, teasing, letting her knee graze lightly against his. “And this is the best you came up with?”

He smiled, gaze flicking down to where their legs brushed. “I thought the coffee was a solid warm-up.”

She tilted her head, amused. “So this was a strategy.”

“A desperate one,” he admitted. “But effective, apparently.”

She laughed softly, then reached out again—this time brushing something imaginary from the shoulder of his hoodie. “Okay, then. Ask me properly.”

Riccardo leaned a little closer, enough to feel the curve of her arm against his. “Alright. Come out with me. Something real. No elevators. No coffee-to-go. Just us.”

She let her gaze trace his features, resting briefly on his lips, then his eyes. “And if I say yes?”

“Then I’ll try not to fall for you too obviously on the first date.”

Her laugh bubbled up again, quieter this time. She looked away for a second, biting her lower lip to keep the smile from getting too wide. “You’re dangerously smooth, Calafiori.”

“Only around you,” he said, gently nudging her knee with his.

She leaned closer for the third time, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear again, then said back to him with a quiet confidence. “Fine. You can take me out.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Just don’t make it weird.”

“I’ll do my best,” he said. “But no promises.”

She grinned, bumping her shoulder into his. “I like surprises.”

“And I like you,” he murmured, barely loud enough for her to hear.

She didn’t respond right away—just reached for his hand, her fingers brushing lightly against his before pulling away again. And in that soft silence, the promise of something new settled between them.

She wasn’t ready to name it.

He didn’t need to.

But it was there.

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sharpiestools · 1 month ago

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Riccardo Calafiori x Reader - Series Masterlist

Chapter Eight: What Kind of Romcom

After the unexpected elevator encounter, she couldn't shake the stunned expression on Riccardo’s face. He’d tried to play it off, but his surprise was undeniable. And truthfully, she weren’t much better. Of all places, of all people—she had met him here, in her brother’s building, in his building. It was the kind of twist fate seemed to enjoy throwing at her.

When she got back to the apartment, her brother was in the kitchen, casually pouring himself a glass of water.

"You're back early" she noted.

Her brother noticed something almost immediately.

She wasn’t acting different, not exactly—but there was an energy around her, something just slightly off. So, naturally, he asked.

“So, what’s going on with you?”

She dropped her bag on the counter and exhaled. "You'll never believe who I just ran into."

He raised an eyebrow, giving her his full attention. "Who?"

She hesitated for a second, then decided there was no point in dancing around it. "Riccardo. Calafiori."

His brows knitted together in confusion. "The Arsenal guy?"

"The Arsenal guy" she repeated, watching the realization dawn on his face.

“Wait. What do you mean ‘met’ him?”

She looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “I mean exactly that. I ran into him. In the elevator.”

He stared at her, too intently. She rolled her eyes.

“You know him?” Her brother’s voice was cautious now.

She didn’t answer immediately. That was answer enough.

“Oh, my God.”

She exhaled dramatically, dropping her phone. “It’s not that serious.”

“You and Riccardo Calafiori?” He looked like he’d just unlocked the world’s most unexpected plot twist. “How? When?”

She shook her head. “Does it matter?”

“Yes!”

She grabbed a pillow from the couch and threw it at him. “Can you not act like I just told you I committed a crime?”

Her brother dodged the pillow, still staring at her. Then, something clicked. “Oh, this is amazing.”

She frowned. “What?”

His grin widened. “I’m going to have so much fun with this.”

Meanwhile, across the hall, Riccardo was having his own moment of disbelief.

He had just walked into his apartment, dropped his gym bag on the floor, and immediately grabbed his phone. After a brief hesitation, he opened his group chat with Declan and Kai.

Riccardo: You’re not going to believe this.

Kai was the first to reply.

Kai: ??

Declan: What happened

Riccardo stared at the screen for a moment before typing:

Riccardo: She lives here.

Kai: Who?

Riccardo: Her.

Declan’s response came almost immediately.

Declan: Shut up.

Kai: No way.

Riccardo exhaled, running a hand through his hair. Yeah. No way.

Riccardo: I swear. We just ran into each other in the elevator.

Kai: And??

Riccardo exhaled, running a hand through his hair before typing:

Riccardo: She looked shocked as hell. Almost more than me.

Declan: LMAO

Kai: Bro, what kind of rom-com is this??

Riccardo threw his phone onto the couch, still processing. Yeah. What kind of rom-com is this?

#riccardo calafiori #riccardo calafiori fanfic #riccardo calafiori x reader #riccardo calafiori fluff #riccardo calafiori angst #footballer x reader #football fanfic #calafiori #arsenal x reader #arsenal #arsenal fanfic

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sharpiestools · 2 months ago

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prettiest man alive fr

part-time athlete, full time model.

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sharpiestools · 2 months ago

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Riccardo Calafiori x Reader, mentions of ex!Jude Bellingham - Series Masterlist

Chapter Seven: Familiar Faces, Unfamiliar Encounters

She needed to breathe.

London made sense. It was temporary, just a break. Her brother was there, he was the one person who truly understood her, if there was anyone who could ground her, it was him. He had always been steady—serious, focused, grounded, someone who made her feel safe without coddling her. And she needed that.

Madrid had always been her sanctuary, her safe haven amidst the whirlwind of her life. But lately, it felt different. The city still loved her, still welcomed her with open arms, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. Not just by the cameras, but by ghosts of a past she didn’t even care for anymore. Jude’s new relationship wasn’t a wound—it was an irritation, a buzzing mosquito she kept swatting away, only for it to circle back.

Her brother had barely reacted when she called to say she was coming. Just a simple, "Alright. You know there's always space for you here." He hadn’t even asked if something was wrong. Maybe because he already knew.

When she arrived, he was waiting at the airport, hands in his pockets, put-together as always.

"Didn’t think you’d come to rainy London for peace," he teased, pulling her into a quick hug. "Running away from the drama, are we?"

She rolled her eyes, letting him grab her suitcase. "I just missed being around family."

He gave her a look, one that said he wasn’t buying it, but he didn’t push. Instead, he drove them back to his apartment, filling the ride with updates on work, on London’s social scene, on everything but why she was really here.

Her days in London had a different rhythm. Mornings were spent at the gym or walking around the city. Afternoons were often filled with meetings or fashion-related commitments. And evenings? Those were reserved for unwinding with her brother, something she realized she had missed more than she thought.

She just hadn’t expected fate to throw Riccardo Calafiori back into her path so soon.

It happened in the most mundane way possible, an elevator ride. She had just returned from a late lunch out, stepping into the building and making her way toward the lift, focused on her phone. The doors slid open, and she stepped inside without looking up, hitting the button for her brother’s floor.

It wasn’t until she felt another presence beside her that she glanced up and froze.

Riccardo.

The moment their eyes met, she felt it again, that undeniable pull, the same electric undercurrent that had been there in Milan. But this time, it wasn’t under dim lights and the haze of an afterparty. It was here, in the bright, sterile elevator of her brother’s building, the last place she would have expected to run into him.

And from the way his eyebrows lifted in surprise before he quickly masked it with an easy smirk, she could tell he hadn’t expected it either.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. It was just the two of them, the soft hum of the elevator filling the silence. He blinked, as if making sure he wasn’t imagining things, then recovered faster than she did.

"Wow," he said, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"Yeah. Same" she agreed, shifting her weight slightly. "You live here?"

"I do. And you?" he asked, eyes scanning her face, the small details she knew he had already memorized.

"My brother does," she said, tilting her head. "I’m staying with him for a bit."

Her heartbeat was too loud.

He looked good—annoyingly good. Like the last time she had seen him, like Milan, like the hours they had spent tangled together. She had spent days trying to push him out of her mind, and now here he was, standing barely a foot away.

His brows lifted slightly. "Your brother lives here?" he asked again, as if trying to make sure all of that was real.

She nodded, forcing herself to act normal. “Surprised?” She asked teasingly.

“A little.” He pursed his lips, still taking in her presence.

She couldn't help but smile as she looked at him, he was still as effortlessly handsome as she remembered, but there was something amusing about seeing him in such a normal setting, wearing a hoodie and sweatpants instead of designer fits or his football kit.

Finally, Riccardo tilted his head. "So… am I going to see you around?"

Her breath caught in her throat.

She didn’t know. She didn’t know what she wanted, or what this even was. But the thought of not seeing him again made her chest tighten in a way she wasn’t ready to unpack.

The elevator dings. Her floor.

So she smiled, a little too knowing, a little too playful. "Maybe."

Then she stepped out, leaving him behind as the doors begin to close. But right before they shut completely, she hears him say—

“See you around, superstar.”

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sharpiestools · 2 months ago

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Riccardo Calafiori x Reader

Series Masterlist

Chapter 1 - Two Worlds, One Night

Chapter 2 - Encounter

Chapter 3 - Something About Him

Chapter 4 - Give in

Chapter 5 - Take Care

Chapter 6 - What Happens in Milan...

Chapter 7 - Familiar Faces, Unfamiliar Encounters

Chapter 8 - What Kind of Romcom

Chapter 9 - Coffee

Chapter 10 - First Chapter

Chapter 11 - I Know a Place

#riccardo calafiori #riccardo calafiori fanfic #riccardo calafiori x reader #riccardo calafiori angst #riccardo calafiori fluff #footballer x reader #football fanfic #calafiori #arsenal x reader #arsenal #richy calafiori #richycala #arsenal fanfic

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sharpiestools · 2 months ago

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Reader x Riccardo Calafiori, Ex!Jude Bellingham - Series Masterlist

Chapter Six: What Happens in Milan...

The moment the plane landed in Madrid, she felt a strange mixture of relief and unease. Madrid was home—the city that always brought her comfort, a place where she belonged. This was where she could find her peace again. But peace, she quickly realized, wasn’t so easy to come by.

For the past few days, she’d tried to bury the confusion Riccardo left behind. She hadn’t stopped thinking about him since Milan. Their brief encounter had lingered, a smoldering ember in the back of her mind that wouldn't burn out. She tried to distract herself, focusing on her friends, her routines, the welcoming hum of Madrid, but Riccardo’s touch, his eyes, the way he made her feel… It had been hard to let go of that, even if she knew it was just supposed to be a fleeting moment.

“You seem... distracted”, Mina said one afternoon, sipping her coffee as they sat together in one of their usual spots. Mina was sharp, always paying attention to the smallest details, especially when it came to her friend. “What happened in Milan? I know you, spill.”

The reader shifted in her seat, suddenly aware of the slight tension in her chest. Riccardo. She hadn’t told Mina everything—couldn’t, really. What was there to say? That she couldn’t stop thinking about someone she barely knew? That she felt drawn to him in a way that completely rattled her?

She smiled, trying to maintain her calm. "Nothing serious, really" she said, brushing it off with a small laugh. "What happens in Milan, stays in Milan".

Mina raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Uh-huh. You don’t look like you’re over it, though. Did you sleep with him?"

The question hit her harder than expected, a rush of heat flooding her face. She took a deep breath, leaning back in her chair. “Mina,” she said with a chuckle, trying to deflect. “It was just a night, nothing to make a big deal out of.”

But Mina wasn’t having it. "Right. Just a night." She smirked, clearly not buying the nonchalant response. “You know, if you want to tell me about him, you can. No judgments here.”

The conversation quickly moved on, but the question lingered in the back of the reader’s mind, gnawing at her. What had happened between her and Riccardo? And why did she feel this connection—this pull—she hadn’t felt with anyone else?

She had thrown herself back into her usual rhythm—long walks through the Salamanca district, dinners with friends, spontaneous wine nights with Luz, and, of course, football.

It wasn’t long before the reader was in her usual seat at the Bernabéu's VIP room, casually chatting with the wags, her familiar surroundings bringing her a sense of normalcy. The roar of the crowd, the electricity in the air, the company of her friends—it was all so right.

Even before dating Jude, she was a fixture in the VIP section, a presence woven into the Real Madrid family. She had been close with Rodrygo since their teenage years in Brazil, and through him, she had built deep, genuine friendships with many of the players and their families, no breakup was going to change that.

But even in her safe haven, Jude was still there. She had been doing just fine, pushing aside any thoughts of him, avoiding anything remotely related to his name. That was, until the first home game she attended since returning.

He was on the field, but had found a way to make his presence known. As if orchestrated for her discomfort, there was his new girlfriend.

Or rather, the woman he was parading around as one. The woman who had been a shadow in gossip columns for weeks, new stories about her emerging everyday, her presence was a whisper of scandal among Real Madrid’s inner circle.

Reader's thoughts were immediately interrupted when she noticed the girl walking towards her. A familiar face—just not in a way that one would be proud of. She was well-known in certain circles, her reputation stretching far beyond Madrid, with ties to high-profile athletes in the U.S. and a past that made even the most media-trained wags bite their tongues in distaste.

“I must say, it’s interesting to see you here,” the new girl finally said, her voice dripping with faux sweetness, eyes gleaming with something almost taunting. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

The reader didn’t flinch. She wasn’t bothered by the girl’s presence, but she knew what this was. The girl was trying to provoke her, to draw her into some petty confrontation. It was a game the reader didn’t have time for.

She merely raised a perfectly arched brow, taking a slow sip of her drink. “And you are?”

It was the way she said it—effortless, uninterested, as if the woman before her was insignificant.

Jude’s girlfriend faltered for only a second before plastering on a tight smile. "I’m sure you’ve heard of me."

She hummed, tilting her head slightly. “Ah, right. The one who gets around.”

Everyone around watched with subtle, approving nods. It was clear they had no interest in welcoming someone who hadn’t been through the years of shared experiences they had with the reader, specially in this context. Jude’s new girl was quickly disregarded, her presence no longer as bold as it had been when she first walked in.

The sharp inhale from the other woman was deeply satisfying.

But reader wasn’t here for this drama. She was here for the game, for her friends, for herself.

So she turned away, her attention snapping back to the pitch, where Rodrygo was already looking her way, as if silently checking in.

She nodded, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips.

She was exactly where she belonged.

Meanwhile, across the Channel, Riccardo was trying—and failing—to pretend Milan hadn’t happened.

He had thrown himself into football, into training, into anything that would keep his mind from wandering back to Milan. Back to her.

The match schedule was relentless, and he welcomed it. Arsenal was in a good moment, the team was in sync, and he was adjusting well to London. His apartment felt less foreign now, the city’s rhythm becoming familiar. And yet, in the quiet moments—the ones between training sessions, the drives home, the late nights when his body was exhausted but his mind wouldn’t shut off—she crept in.

He had no business thinking about a woman he met once. It was stupid. They had both known what that night was. A fleeting thing. No numbers exchanged, no promises made. But the memory of her still lingered—her voice, her laugh, the way she carried herself like she owned every room she walked into, the way she had looked at him, touched him.

Fuck.

He had always admired her from afar, and now he had seen her up close.

And he wasn’t sure he could forget.

His teammates had noticed something was off. Kai had side-eyed him in the dressing room, Martin had made some joke about his “head being in the clouds,” and Declan had outright asked if he had “left his brain in Milan.” He brushed it off, of course. He wasn’t about to admit to them—or to himself—how much she had gotten under his skin.

And then, as if the universe was playing some cruel joke, he saw her again.

#riccardo calafiori #riccardo calafiori x reader #riccardo calafiori fanfic #riccardo calafiori fluff #riccardo calafiori angst #arsenal #arsenal x reader #calafiori #football fanfic #footballer x reader #jude bellingham #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham fanfic #jude bellingham angst #jude bellingham smut #jude bellingham fluff #real madrid x reader #real madrid fanfic #arsenal fanfic

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