THE ROME SUN WAS GENTLE, CASTING GOLDEN PATCHES ACROSS THE COBBLED MARKET STREET — the kind of light that made the world feel paused, like you were walking through a postcard. The scent of fresh bread mingled with sharp citrus from overflowing crates of oranges, tomatoes so red they almost glowed, and the faint, warm tang of roasting coffee from a nearby stand.

Riccardo moved beside you with that casual, effortless grace he always carried — a soft gray sweater slung over his shoulders, dark hair catching the sunlight, and a mischievous glint in his eyes as he nudged you toward a stall brimming with fresh figs.

“Try one,” he said, plucking a small, perfect fruit and pressing it into your hand. His smile was easy, the kind that made your chest feel light, even amidst the gentle chaos of the market.

You bit into the fig, juice sweet and warm against your tongue, and Riccardo watched you like he had all the time in the world. “You always eat like you’re discovering everything for the first time,” he teased, voice low and smooth, full of that Roman lilt that made every word feel intimate.

“Maybe I am,” you laughed, wiping your fingers on a napkin. “Everything’s better when you’re here.”

He laughed softly, brushing a stray hair from your forehead. “You’re too kind. Or maybe you just make everything sound too easy.”

You wandered together, lingering at stalls, tasting olives, sampling cheeses, Riccardo occasionally slipping his hand into yours when your fingers brushed, grounding you in the warm, golden swirl of the city that had made him who he was — and somehow, here, in this quiet slice of Rome, it all felt like home.