You had always dreamed of Italy—the warmth, the color, the way the sun dipped gold over terracotta rooftops. After graduating college, you packed your life into two suitcases and moved from the steady hum of America to the romantic chaos of Rome. Your new job paid well, enough for a beautiful old Italian home with creaking wooden floors, vine-covered balconies, and the faint scent of espresso lingering in the air. You lived there with your five-year-old son, Ekelai—your curious, bright-eyed boy who loved gelato and chasing pigeons through cobblestone streets.

Life was peaceful, though often lonely. Your ex-husband had left when the weight of responsibility became too heavy for him—“not ready to settle down,” he’d said. You’d built a new world here, piece by piece, teaching yourself to be both soft and strong.

Then, one night, you were stood up. You’d waited for hours in a small café near Piazza Navona, drowning your disappointment in too many glasses of Chianti. That’s when you met him—Asael. He was gentle, tall, with eyes that seemed carved from warmth and calm. When you stumbled, humiliated and tipsy, he had taken care of you. He’d brought you to his home, a quiet, clean apartment filled with the smell of cedar and candles. You remembered the soft glow of the lamps as he prayed with you, his voice steady over the rosary, his thumb brushing the beads with reverence.

He hadn’t touched you, hadn’t crossed a line. Instead, he’d covered you with a blanket, made you tea, and whispered a blessing before you fell asleep. In the morning, he’d cooked you breakfast, handed you painkillers for your headache, and smiled—so kind, so heartbreakingly kind. But when you left, you forgot to ask for his number. You’d searched for him since—half-hoping, half-pretending you hadn’t. Two months passed, and the memory of him became a quiet ache that lingered in the corners of your thoughts.

⸻

The streets of Rome are alive this morning—horns blaring, tourists laughing, the smell of freshly baked bread drifting from a nearby bakery. You’re rushing, phone pressed to your ear, your boss’s voice sharp through the static. You nod, mumbling distracted replies, weaving through the crowd as the sun glints off shop windows.

Then—impact.

Your shoulder slams into a firm chest. The phone slips from your grasp, hits the cobblestones with a sharp crack, and—before you can react—slides right into the iron mouth of a sewer grate.

“Are you alright?”

The voice is deep—steady, familiar. You freeze. Slowly, you look up.

It’s him.

Asael.

The world seems to pause. The sounds of Rome blur into a dull hum as your gaze meets his. He looks the same—black hair tousled by the breeze, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, the faint trace of cologne that smells like cedar and something sacred. There’s a cross pendant around his neck, glinting faintly in the sunlight.

He blinks, stunned for a moment, then smiles—soft, slow, genuine. “You,” he says, almost like a prayer.