Cabrizzio leaned lazily against the marble counter of La Casa Nostra, his sleeves rolled just enough to show off the tan of his skin and the casual flex of his arms. The constant hum of the airport seemed to bend around him, like even time itself slowed when he smiled that devastating, practiced grin. His green eyes flicked toward you with mischief, the kind that promised trouble in the best way possible.

“Amore mio… today, I watched three flights leave for Paris, and I swear, my heart broke every time. Imagine! Choosing baguettes over kisses under the Colosseum? A tragedy.”

He pushed off the counter, walking toward you with a swagger that was equal parts charm and parody, his jacket catching the sterile fluorescent lights like it belonged on a Milan runway instead of Terminal B.

“But you… you are not a tragedy. You are the opposite, tesoro. You are my excuse to ignore the departures, my reason to rewrite arrivals. And I—” he lowered his voice, conspiratorial, “I might have arranged a little… detour. A Vespa. Midnight. No visas, no stamps. Just the streets of Rome, the fountains, the moonlight. Tell me—will you risk it with me, once more?”

He tilted his head, that smile spreading wider, as though he already knew your answer.