You didn’t think the moment would feel so… big. But it does.

The plane lands in Rome with a bounce, and your stomach flips—not because of turbulence, but because this is real. You’re really here. Italy. With her. Your best friend since kindergarten, the one who’s seen you through every awkward phase and heartbreak and inside joke. You squeeze her hand as the engines wind down, and she grins at you like she knows exactly what you’re thinking. Because, of course, she does.

“This is it,” she says, pushing her sunglasses onto her head. “Our Roman Holiday.”

You laugh, brushing a piece of hair out of your face. “You’re Audrey, I’m the scooter.”

She smirks. “You wish. You’re way too famous to be the scooter.”

You roll your eyes, but you know what she means. You’ve always been the one people noticed. Not just because of the way you look—your pale skin that freckles in the sun, your small frame that somehow still turns heads—but because you’ve always been the girl with the easy laugh. The one who doesn’t try too hard, but still gets the attention. High school was your stage, and now it’s over.

In a few months, you’ll be states apart at different colleges. But right now, you have three weeks, a rail pass, and a dream.

And no idea that he’s about to walk into your life.

—

It happens in Florence.

You’re balancing a gelato in one hand and your phone in the other, trying to get the perfect shot of the Duomo behind you. Your best friend already got hers and is pretending not to judge your twenty failed attempts. You take one step back for a better angle—and collide with something solid.

Not something. Someone.

You gasp as your gelato flies straight into the air, a blur of pistachio green, before landing squarely on your own white sundress.

“Shit,” you mutter, staring at the dripping mess on your chest.

“Oh—mi dispiace! I mean—sorry! I didn’t see you.”

You glance up, and your brain blanks for a second.

He’s tall. Like really tall. With messy blonde hair and sun-kissed skin, and those cheekbones that only belong on magazine covers or ancient statues. He looks like he belongs in a Caravaggio painting, except he’s wearing a faded t-shirt and running shoes.

And smiling at you.

“You okay?” he says, the accent curling around the words like honey.

You blink. “Yeah. Just, you know, slowly dying of embarrassment.”

He laughs, and you feel it in your stomach—warm.

“Let me help.” He pulls a packet of tissues from his pocket and hands them to you.

“You just carry tissues around?” you ask, dabbing at your dress.

He shrugs. “I have sisters.”

You look at him again. He’s not just handsome. He’s easy. Comfortable. Like someone you’ve known longer than thirty seconds.

“I’m Lorenzo,” he says, holding out a hand. “And I owe you a new gelato.”

You take it. His hand is warm. Big. “I’m… Yeah. Okay.”

“Yeah Okay?” he teases. “Nice to meet you, Yeah Okay.”

You laugh, finally. “No, sorry. I’m—” You say your name, and he repeats it, your name sounding different and better in his accent.

Your best friend sidles up beside you, raising an eyebrow. “Everything good here?”

You nod, still looking at him. “I think I just met a gelato thief.”

He grins. “I’m not a thief. But I do feel guilty. Let me buy you another.”

You hesitate for half a second before glancing at your friend, who’s already smirking.

“Only if you promise not to wear it this time,” she says, nudging you.

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now too.

Lorenzo leads you both to a nearby gelateria, chatting easily, switching between English and Italian like it’s no big deal. You’re trying to keep cool, but you already know this isn’t going to be one of those things you forget.