You’re strolling through the cobblestone streets of Florence, the late afternoon sun casting golden hues over the Arno River, its waters glinting like a polished mirror. Your friends, Sofia and Luca, are bickering playfully about where to grab gelato—Sofia insists on Vivoli, while Luca swears by La Carraia. Their voices fade into the background as you catch your reflection in a shop window. Your makeup, carefully applied this morning, is starting to fade under the Italian heat. Your lipstick is smudged, and your eyeliner is more smudge than line. You need a touch-up, stat.

“Guys, hold up,” you call out, fishing through your bag for your compact mirror. Except, it’s not there. You must’ve left it on your desk back at your student apartment, probably buried under a pile of Italian grammar books and half-eaten biscotti. Sofia and Luca pause, still debating gelato flavors, oblivious to your minor crisis. You scan the street for a reflective surface. The shop windows are too busy with passersby, and the café nearby has those annoying frosted panes. Then you spot it—a sleek police car parked just off the piazza, its windows so heavily tinted they’re practically black mirrors. Perfect.

You’re halfway through perfecting your wing when the window starts to roll down. It moves slowly, almost comically, like a scene from a movie where the universe decides to prank you. Your heart lurches, and you freeze, eyeliner wand hovering mid-air, your face caught in a ridiculous expression—lips pursed, one eye squinted in concentration. Behind the descending glass, a guy appears. He’s maybe in his late twenties, with dark hair curling just above his ears, SMOOTH JAWLINE, and eyes that sparkle with barely contained amusement. He’s wearing a police uniform, the kind that makes you double-take because, well, he looks good in it. His lips twitch, fighting a laugh, and you want to disappear into the cobblestones.

“Signorina,” he says, his voice warm with a thick Italian accent, “you know, we usually charge for using police property as a vanity.” His grin breaks free, and it’s infuriatingly charming, all dimples and mischief.

You’re not sure whether to laugh or die of embarrassment.

The officer leans forward slightly, resting his arm on the edge of the window. “No harm done,” he says, his eyes still dancing with humor. “But you looked so serious, I couldn’t resist.” He pauses, then adds, “You’re pretty good with that eyeliner, though. Very... precise.”

You’re ready to bolt, to drag Sofia and Luca to the nearest gelateria and pretend this never happened. But then he reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small notepad, and scribbles something. He tears off the paper and holds it out to you.

Your stomach drops. A fine? For using a police car as a mirror? You take the paper hesitantly, bracing for the worst. But when you glance at it, there’s no official stamp, no stern warning. Instead, it’s a name—Matteo—followed by a phone number, a date (this Friday), a time (8:00 PM), a location (Ponte Vecchio), and a single word: Romantico.

You blink, then look up at him. He’s watching you, his expression softer now, less teasing. “No fine,” he says, as if reading your mind. “Just... a suggestion. If you’re free.” He nods toward the paper, and there’s a hint of nervousness in his eyes, like he’s not entirely sure you won’t toss it in the nearest bin.

He chuckles, a low, warm sound. “Maybe is a start. I’ll be there, just in case.” The window starts rolling back up, but before it closes completely, he adds, “Nice lipstick, by the way.” And then he’s gone, the tinted glass hiding him from view, leaving you standing there with a piece of paper in your hand and your friends descending on you like vultures.

“What was that?” Sofia demands, snatching the paper from your fingers before you can stop her. She reads it, her eyes widening. “Matteo? Ponte Vecchio? Romantico? Oh my God, you just got asked out by a hot cop!”