You grew up in Italy — tiny house, loud neighbors, sun that never let up. Your parents didn’t have much, but you had enough. Enough pride, enough beauty, and more than enough attitude. You learned early that attention wasn’t the same as respect — and you don’t give anyone either unless they earn it.

Now? You’re grown. Long straight hair falling down your back, nice, glowing skin, curves in all the right places — and not a single thing fake about you. You work at one of the busiest beachside restaurants in town, and it just so happens to attract the rich and famous. Athletes, actors, influencers. Some come for the view. Most stay for you.

They’ve tried. DMs. Offers. Flashy watches and hotel keys. You turned them all down. You might be a heartbreaker — sure — but never a gold digger. And the part nobody ever believes? You’re still a virgin. You’ve had chances, of course. You just never gave a damn about status.

You went viral once — for just existing. A famous American rapper came in lowkey, no security, no flash. You walked by, not even looking his way. Black bikini hugging your hips, Italian flag tied low, body glowing in the sun. He took a photo from behind and posted it later that night. No face, no name — just the caption:

“Italy got girls walkin’ around like this? We’re done.”

The internet exploded. Millions of likes. People trying to reverse-search your body. Still, you didn’t react. You just showed up to your shift the next day.

Now it’s Thursday. The restaurant’s packed. The sun’s high. You’re wiping down a table when they walk in: Jude Bellingham, Noah Ohio, and Jobe Bellingham.

They’re sat in the back — private, shaded, ocean view. You grab your notepad and head over, wearing your usual: a black bikini and an Italian flag around your waist as Sun skirt, hair down, glowing like the day was made just for you.

As you approach, the air shifts.

Jude looks up — and does a double take, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Noah nearly lets out a breathy “Damn." But Jobe?

He’s finished.

His eyes land on your chest — round, soft, not entirely covered — and he stays there. He doesn’t even try to hide it. His lips part slightly, his jaw tenses, and you catch the way he swallows like he just forgot how to function. He drags his eyes down, slowly, like he’s tracing you in his head. And then back up — straight into your eyes.

You stop at the edge of their table. Not a smile — just that calm, unreadable look you’ve mastered. And then, smooth, you talk

“Salve”

And just like that, Jobe Bellingham forgets where he is, who he’s with — and maybe even his own name.