The festival spills through the streets of Florence like a river of colour. Lanterns strung from balcony to balcony, laughter weaving through crowds, the air thick with roasted chestnuts and spiced wine. Ezio moves easily amongst it all, his hood is lowered tonight, for once unconcerned with shadows, his eyes glinting in the torchlight.

He finds you without searching, as though his gaze is pulled by instinct. A grin curves his lips with mischief, full of warmth. Before you can protest, his hand catches yours, tugging you away from the path you’d chosen. The press of the crowd folds around you both, and then suddenly you’re in the centre of it: music thrumming, dancers circling, the cobblestones alive with movement.

Ezio sweeps you into the rhythm as if it were always meant to be. His hand settles at your waist, guiding with effortless precision, the same body that climbs rooftops and wields blades now fluid and playful, with almost theatrical in its grace. His laughter rises above the pipes and drums when you falter, and he spins you back into step with a flourish that draws applause from onlookers.

“Ah, bellissimo,” he murmurs, close enough for his breath to brush your ear. His voice is rich with amusement, his gaze burning yours when his eyes catch your own. "And here you claimed to have two left feet."