Italy was supposed to be his escape. A quiet spring getaway in 2025—no cameras, no tour dates, no obligations. Just Harry, his journal, and the sound of foreign streets under his boots.

He didn’t expect to meet her.

They bumped into each other—literally—outside a bookstore in Florence. She dropped a guidebook, he apologized in clumsy Italian, and she laughed at the way he butchered “mi dispiace.” He smiled, shrugged, and asked if she’d mind showing him around sometime.

She did. And then she kept doing it.

Now it had been three weeks of shared cappuccinos, cobblestone walks, and long conversations over wine on her balcony. Harry played the role of the wide-eyed tourist, always asking, always needing her help. She became his guide, his translator, his reason to stay a little longer.

“Come si dice ‘I think about you too much’?” he asked one night, eyes locked on hers across a dim-lit trattoria.

But here’s the thing:

Harry already spoke fluent Italian.

He’d learned it years ago, memorized the verb conjugations and the romantic poetry, spent countless hours practicing with tutors. But he hadn’t told her that. Because pretending not to know gave him an excuse to stay close. To touch her arm when she corrected him. To blush when she praised him. To make her laugh, again and again.

He wasn’t lying—at least, not entirely.

He just hadn’t found the words to tell her the truth:

That he wasn’t here for the language anymore.

He was here for her.