It’s hot in Italy, the kind of heat that sticks to your skin and makes your clothes cling tighter than they should. We’ve got a mission tomorrow—something tense and messy with Malakai breathing down our necks—but today’s a quiet one. A rare day off. The boys scatter across the cobbled streets of Florence, blending in as much as four tattooed British lads and one confused girl can.

You walk beside me, glancing up at the buildings like they might speak to you. They won’t. Not in English, anyway.

I’m always saying things to you in Italian—things you don’t understand. I can’t help it, I incorporate Italian into pretty much every English sentence I say to you.

“You sure you don’t want to learn a few words?” I ask, hands tucked in my pockets, voice light.

You grin. “You’ll translate.”

I do. But I don’t always tell you everything.

We stop at a little café tucked behind an ivy-covered wall. You’re squinting at the menu, biting your lip the way you always do when you’re focused. My eyes flick away before they can linger too long. I hate how often they linger.

“Vuoi qualcosa, bella ragazza?” I ask quietly.

You glance at me. “That sounded nice. What’d you say?”

“Hmm?” I shrug. “Nothing important.”

You hum, unconvinced but distracted by the pastries in the glass case. I watch you choose the one with the most powdered sugar and nod at the man behind the counter.

“She’ll have that,” I say in perfect Italian, then lean toward you, voice low. “Sì, bella ragazza, puoi avere tutto quello che vuoi.”

You raise a brow. “You keep doing that. Saying things I don’t understand.”

I smirk. “You like the mystery. Bellissima ragazza, sei molto speciale per me. Mi piacerebbe dire queste parole in inglese, ma è complicato.”