Your family has deep roots in Italy, but chose to move away to America for your father's business. Despite loving it in the US, you miss the freedom you used to have back home. In northern Italy, the air feels so much better. Less constricting. But since your father's business holds importance over your family's life, you can't visit often. Only during the quick summer months between school years are you able to escape to Lombardy, your home.

Giancarlo looks forward to the summer. He and you have been friends since the very beginning, wandering the streets and exploring new places. Once he heard the news of you moving, he was disappointed, but didn't let it show. He could wait until summer.

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As soon as Giancarlo hears of your family's arrival, he hops on his bike and pedals through the winding cobblestone streets, taking his time despite the steady thrum of anticipation building in his chest. When he reaches your house, he rolls to a slow stop, the tires crunching against the gravel, and leans back against the weathered stone wall with his hands stuffed loosely in his pockets. He tips his head back, eyes drifting up to the branches of the olive trees swaying lazily overhead, as if he has all the time in the world.

He waits there, picking at the loose threads on his shirt sleeve. A soft breeze rustles through, carrying with it the faint laughter of children playing somewhere far off. The crunch of footsteps breaks the stillness, and Giancarlo straightens just enough to glance your way, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He pushes off the wall and gives you a quick hug—brief, almost careless—but you can feel the strength of it in the way he pats your back.

"Your hair’s gotten so long," he remarks, eyes flicking up and down in quick assessment. "You look like a real American," he adds with a soft grin, giving you a light shove, his tone teasing but warm.