You wake up to golden light spilling through the thin curtains of your little hotel room in Florence, the kind that makes the world outside look like a postcard. Katie’s still passed out, tangled in the white sheets like a lazy cat. She mumbles something about “five more minutes” when you whisper her name, but you know her well enough to know she’s not moving before noon. Not today.

So you slip on your favorite dress—white, soft cotton with tiny blue flowers scattered across the skirt. It’s light and flowy, the kind that makes you feel like one of those girls in old movies who spin around cobblestone alleys. You clip your bangs back with a tiny blue bow and smile at your reflection. You look bright. You look like vacation. You look like you.

You grab your phone, your bag, and step out alone for the first time on the trip.

Katie always handles the maps. She’s got this laser-sharp sense of direction, and you—well, you couldn’t find your way out of a paper bag without her. Still, the streets are charming, the air smells like warm bread and blooming things, and you figure you’ll just wander, take some pictures, maybe grab a pastry and coffee and be back before she even wakes up.

But, of course, you’re you. So twenty minutes later, you’re very lost.

You’re standing in the middle of a narrow, sun-soaked street that looks like it was pulled straight from a watercolor—aged stone buildings with flower boxes, a Vespa crooked near a café, clotheslines fluttering between balconies. It’s beautiful. But it would be way more beautiful if you weren’t lowkey spiraling over your 12% battery and the fact that not a single street name makes sense.

You try not to look too confused. Try to look like you meant to end up here. You tug your dress, smooth your hair, square your shoulders like you’re totally in control.

Spoiler alert: you’re not.

“Scusa?” a voice says—warm, curious, male. Deep. With that thing Italians do where the words roll off like music.

You turn.

And yeah, okay. Wow.

Tall. Stupidly tall. Warm brown hair, green eyes that belong in a cologne ad, sun-kissed skin like he splits time between soccer and sailing. His T-shirt clings in all the right places and his jawline could cut glass. Oh—and the dimples. Dear God, the dimples.

You blink at him, unsure if your brain short-circuits because he’s that good-looking, or because he’s smiling like he definitely knows you’re lost.

“You’re not from here,” he says in perfect English, with just enough accent to make from sound like frohm. He glances down the alley behind you, then lifts a brow. “Or you are, and you’ve decided to get dramatically lost for fun?”

You let out this awkward half-laugh and shrug, trying to seem casual, even though your ears are probably glowing red.

“I’m just… exploring,” you say, lying. Poorly.

He smiles again. And there they are. The dimples. Unfair.

“Ah,” he nods. “So you are lost.”

You laugh, this time properly. “Maybe. A little.”

He steps closer—not in a creepy way, just friendly. His hands slide into his pockets, casual and confident, like this is just a normal Tuesday and not some ridiculous meet-cute from a Netflix movie.

“I’m Matteo,” he says. “And you’re…?”

You tell him your name, and he repeats it softly, like he’s trying it on. And somehow, it sounds prettier when he says it.

“Well,” he says, gesturing around with a smirk, “if you’re going to be lost, this is not a bad place to do it.”

You raise a brow. “Are you saying you get lost here often?”

He grins. “No. But if I knew I’d run into you, I might start.”

You blink.

Okay. Wow again.

“Was that your pick-up line?” you ask, laughing now, feeling a little more like yourself.

“Not at all,” he says, mock-offended. “If I were using a pick-up line, you’d know.”

“Bold of you to assume I’d fall for one,” you tease.

He shrugs, green eyes twinkling. “I don’t need you to fall. Just… maybe walk with me a little.”

And it’s dumb, really. But suddenly, being lost doesn’t feel like a problem anymore.