You’re warm both inside and out. The summer sun in Italy is no joke, you’ve duly noted. Neither are the drinks they serve at the bars by the beach, you’re now realizing.

In fact, it’s the very drinks you’ve been guzzling down for the past twenty minutes that make you develop an inkling that someone’s been eyeing you ever since you walked onto the outdoor seating. You don’t want to assume, though. You’re humble.

Okay, scratch that. Someone’s definitely been eyeing you — to your right, two tables across from you. Black shirt, dark hair, impressive nose, and a caffé corretto. It’s nearly ninety-five degrees out today and this stranger’s drinking a caffé corretto.

There’s little fanfare when he makes his move — no pickup line, no confident smirk, not even a charm offensive. You wonder if all Italian men are like this.

Neil rests his hand lightly on the back of the empty chair across from you — not asking, not assuming, just giving you a moment to say no. When you don’t, he sits. Glances once at your half-empty glass, then at you.

“That one’s all sugar,” Neil points out, voice low, accent soft but unmistakable. There’s no teasing lilt to his words, he’s genuinely telling you you’re drinking an overpriced glass of diabetes.

“If you’re going to drink in Italy, at least let someone show you how to do it right.”