The first night we moved in together

 

it wasn’t really our place yet. We’d just rented a cheap little basement — nothing fancy.

Olimpia took the bed that night, used to the comforts of her parents’ home. I wasn’t about to argue, since she was the one footing the bill.

She’d said:
You can take the couch, but tomorrow you’ll wake up in my bed anyway.

Cocky.
Annoying.
Correct.

And no—it wasn’t for the reason you’re picturing. But sure, believe what you want. I’m not here to ruin your cheap imagination. Back then, we weren’t a couple. Not yet. But if you’re waiting for the spoiler—yeah, after that night things got real hot.

No slow burn, no awkward flirting. Just two explosions in a small room and suddenly, there was no going back.

Olimpia was neat, methodical, the human embodiment of a metronome. Sheet music lined up like soldiers, pens all standing at attention in a glass.
Me? I lived in piles. Piles of clothes. Piles of ideas. Piles of trouble.
Yet somehow, our worlds clicked—like two puzzle pieces that didn’t fit until you kicked them into place.

The second night, while Olimpia played chef—meaning she unscrewed a jar of olives like she was defusing a bomb—I told her a story.

Not the “cute for TV” version.
The real one.
The one where the blood didn’t just stain—it stuck.

I started with the sound. People always think it’s the screaming that gets you, but no. It’s the wet. The way skin makes that dull, slippery slap when it meets the ground too fast.
Her hands froze over the jar.
I kept going.

I told her about the alley. About the knife. About the way the guy’s eyes went wide like he’d just realized he was out of time. And how I smiled—not because I enjoyed it (well, not just that), but because in that moment, I’d won.
No judge, no trial, no appeals. Just me and gravity.

Olimpia didn’t blink.
That’s when I knew she was mine. Not in the romantic way—get your head out of the soap opera—but in the you can handle the truth without throwing up way.
She didn’t ask why. Smart. The why never makes anyone look better.

Then she said:
— You should write it.
— Write it? And do what with it?
— A Black humor series.

I laughed so hard I nearly choked on an olive.

Not some fancy courtroom drama—this is my life.
Messy. Brutal. With blood and a dark laugh hiding just beneath the surface..

We started throwing around titles:
Trial by Letizia
Dead Men Don’t Lie
The Great Heist: The Scene They’d Ban in Ten Countries

She brought the clean lines, the tight rhythm; I brought the mess, the gore, the laugh that hits two beats after it should.
When we got stuck, she’d grab her guitar and play something bright and cheerful—completely wrong for the scene—and I’d add sound effects like a body hitting a dumpster.

We never admitted it, but she had a sharp, mean streak under all that order. And I had a methodical cruelty under my chaos.

We never finished the first episode. But every day, we added another bloody punchline to the show that was us.