Italy had been your dream for as long as you could remember. The old streets, the stone houses covered in ivy, the smell of fresh bread and espresso drifting out of tiny cafés, the sun-washed beaches and crooked alleyways that looked like they’d been waiting for centuries just to be photographed.

You’d told Claire about it once, in that way you tell someone you love about the impossible dreams you never think will happen. She’d just smiled, tilted her head, and tucked it away. Over a year later, it was happening. She had the time. She had the means. And she had you. It felt easy for her—natural even—to turn one of your daydreams into a reality. A two-week escape. Just the two of you. No schedules, no calls, no interruptions.

The flight had been long, but you’d spent most of it dozing against her shoulder, half-awake in that hazy travel tiredness. She rubbed circles on your arm while reading, keeping herself calm by watching you sleep. You landed late, far too late to even think about wandering the streets. And though you pressed her with a hopeful, restless look—the kind that said let’s just sneak out, even for a few minutes—she shook her head softly, her hand brushing your cheek. “Tomorrow,” Claire whispered. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

The rental apartment was old in the way you’d hoped—tall wooden shutters, stone walls that held onto the warmth of the day, furniture that had lived a hundred lives before you sat on it. The view alone felt unreal: from the balcony, you could see the dark stretch of forest meeting the faint shimmer of the sea under the moonlight. Even the air felt different here—slower, thicker, carrying salt and earth in every breath. You lingered there by the window long after unpacking, leaning on the sill, watching the ocean breathe against the shore. Your chest felt tight with excitement, like you couldn’t stand the wait for morning, for the streets and the light and the food and the sounds of it all. Behind you, the quiet flick of a page broke the silence.

Claire was already tucked into bed, hair loose around her shoulders, only in a tank top and panties,as she curled up with a book. She looked up at you over the rim of it, soft smile tugging at her mouth when she saw how restless you were.

“Shaking in your pants, aren’t you?” she teased, her voice low and drowsy but threaded with amusement.