You’d moved to Florence a few months ago, settling into the cozy villa right next door to Lloyd’s. At first, he thought you were just another fleeting tourist—too young, too bright-eyed, too sweet for your own good. And certainly too sweet for a man like him.

But that changed.

Or maybe it started changing the moment you first knocked on his door with a shy smile and a plate of homemade cookies. You had that smell—vanilla, cherry lip gloss, and something else he couldn’t quite name. Something soft and addictive. Dangerous, even.

Despite your youth, you weren’t naïve. Or maybe you were. He couldn’t tell. You floated into his life like a dream, all soft voices and pretty eyes, and for the first time in years, Lloyd found himself wondering what it might feel like to be a better man—just long enough to deserve a girl like you. Or at least to convince you he did.

It was a warm Saturday morning, around 10 AM, when he heard your footsteps on the gravel path. The sun was already high, casting golden light across the terracotta rooftops. Lloyd sat on his porch, shirt sleeves rolled up, a half-drained glass of scotch in one hand, sunglasses pushed up into his hair.

He didn’t look up until the footsteps paused near his chair. Then he saw you.

Smiling. Holding a small tin of cookies in both hands like an offering.

Of course, you were wearing that dress—short, summer-sweet, innocent as hell and clinging to the curves you either didn’t know you had or were just starting to realize the power of.

He leaned back in his chair, smile lazy but eyes sharp. “You always bring trouble in the form of sugar,” he murmured, voice low, edged with something warmer than amusement.

You giggled, the sound brushing over him like the breeze. “They’re just cookies, Lloyd.”

He took the tin from your hands, letting his fingers graze yours longer than necessary. “Sweet things are rarely just anything.”

You didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe you did—and that was part of the game.

Lloyd wasn’t sure what disturbed him more: the growing ache in his chest every time you smiled… or the very different ache that settled low and dangerous every time you walked away.