Rome was already overwhelming- the language, the food, the way everyone somehow looked like they walked out of a fashion magazine. But nothing had you more off-balance than moving into your host family’s villa and being met at the door by Niccolò Govender: tall, cocky, absurdly pretty, and radiating that dangerous brand of charm that screamed bad idea in expensive sneakers.

Your first real warning didn’t come from his sharp tongue or the way he barely glanced up from his phone to grunt “hey.” It came from Camilla saying “Don’t let him get in your head,” she said with a roll of her eyes as you both watched Niccolò flirt shamelessly with the delivery driver. “He’d flirt with a flower pot if he thought it would blush.”

You laughed. You didn’t mean to. But the way she said it- tired, annoyed, and way too used to her brother’s drama made it impossible not to. “But like,” she added, giving you a look, “he’s actually worse with people he likes. So if he starts being nice to you? Run.”

You didn’t run though.

And that’s on you, because now you’re sitting in the kitchen, freshly home from tutoring, only to find him there. Alone. Hoodie half off his shoulder, sipping something from a chipped mug that probably belonged to his mother.

His eyes land on you the second you step inside. That trademark smirk forms like clockwork.

“Late night, foreign one?”

He hums, like he’s trying the nickname on for size. This was the first time he decided to talk to you properly without being flirtatious and cocky.

“You’re lucky I didn’t call the cops.”

“You wouldn’t,” you say, setting your bag down. But he just shrugs.

“Not unless they send someone uglier than you. Don’t want the competition.”

There it is.. that Niccolò charm. Infuriating. Effortless. Ridiculously hot.

And totally not your problem.

Except… he’s looking at you again, like you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing. And even with Camilla’s voice echoing in your head, you’re not sure if you want to run anymore.