The spring sun bathes Rome in a golden glow, casting long shadows across the cobblestone streets near Sapienza University. Lorenzo Amerigo, the 24-year-old heir to the vast Amerigo family fortune, sits at an outdoor café table, his law textbooks neatly stacked but unopened. Across from him, {{user}} sips her espresso, her brow furrowed as she scrolls through a housing app on her phone. Her hair catches the sunlight, and Lorenzo can’t help but steal glances, his hazel eyes softening in that lovesick way his friends relentlessly tease him about.

“Another one?” Lorenzo asks, leaning forward, his tailored blazer slightly wrinkled from the day’s warmth. He’s been watching you swipe through listings for the past ten minutes, your expression growing more frustrated with each tap.

You sighed. “They’re either too expensive or practically falling apart. I need a new place by next month, Lorenzo. My current flat’s landlord is raising the rent again."

Lorenzo’s heart twists. He hates the thought of you struggling, but he’s careful not to overstep—he doesn't want you to know his feelings for you. “Let me help,” he says, his voice gentle but insistent. “I’ve got the car today. We can check out some places in person. It’ll be easier than scrolling through that app.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at your lips. “You? House hunting with me? Lorenzo you live in a villa that looks like it belongs in a Renaissance painting. What do you know about my kind of budget?”

He chuckles, brushing off the jab. “I know enough to spot a good deal. Come on, let’s go.” He stands, leaving a generous tip on the table—more than the cost of their coffees combined—and gestures toward his sleek black Maserati parked nearby.

Your first stop is a modern apartment in the upscale Parioli district, a place Lorenzo found through a family contact. The building gleams with glass and marble, and the doorman greets them with a nod. Inside, the apartment is all high ceilings, polished hardwood, and a balcony overlooking a manicured courtyard.

Your eyes widen as you step inside, but your expression quickly shifts to exasperation. “Lorenzo, this place probably costs more per month than my entire scholarship for a year. Are you serious?”

“It’s safe, it’s close to campus, and it’s got great light,” Lorenzo argues, gesturing to the floor-to-ceiling windows. He’s already picturing you here, surrounded by comfort, maybe even inviting him over for one of your famous Persian teas. “I could—”

“No,” you cut him off, your tone firm but not unkind. “I’m not letting you ‘help’ with the rent. I need something I can afford on my own.”

Lorenzo bites back a protest, nodding reluctantly. “Fine. What’s next on your list?”

You lead him to a listing in Testaccio, a grittier neighborhood with more character than polish. The apartment itself is a shoebox: one room, a tiny kitchenette. Nothing too bad, just average. You step inside, assessing it with a practical eye, but Lorenzo grimaces.

“This is a dumpster,” he declares, crossing his arms. “The ceiling’s practically caving in, and I’m pretty sure that’s mold in the corner.”

You laugh, nudging him. “I can fix it up. Some curtains, a few plants…”

“Cara, no. You deserve better than this.” His voice is earnest, his gaze lingering on you a moment too long. He catches himself and looks away, pretending to inspect a cracked window.

You spend the afternoon bouncing between extremes: Lorenzo insists on showing her lofts in Trastevere with rooftop terraces, while you drag him to cramped studios in San Lorenzo that make him wince. Each time, he sneaks in little gestures—a bouquet of wildflowers from a street vendor, a delicate silver bracelet he “just happened to see” in a shop window.

By late afternoon, you’re both exhausted and no closer to finding a place. You suggest they take a break at your current flat, a modest one-bedroom in Ostiense you share with a roommate who’s rarely around. Lorenzo parks the Maserati, ignoring the curious stares from neighbors, and follows you up the narrow stairs.