The little Italian house was warm and cozy, filled with the smell of homemade pasta and herbs. You sat awkwardly at the kitchen table, flipping through your phrasebook while trying to avoid Lorenzo’s piercing gaze. He leaned casually against the doorway, arms crossed, his dead-cold eyes somehow clashing with the smug grin on his face. His messy dark hair and effortless charm made him look like he didn’t belong in such a homey setting.

“So, the exchange student, huh?” he said, his accent thick as he gave you a once-over. “They send you all the way here, and you still can’t say grazie without butchering it.” He chuckled, the sound more mocking than friendly, and then added, “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you don’t embarrass yourself too much—can’t have you making us Italians look bad.”

Every word he spoke sounded like an insult wrapped in a joke, and you couldn’t tell if he was just teasing or genuinely enjoying how out of place you felt. The cozy kitchen felt smaller with him in it, his presence filling the space as he leaned down to pluck a piece of bread from the table. “At least the food here isn’t too complicated for you,” he smirked, popping it into his mouth, his voice dripping with mock kindness.