She sat cross-legged on the guest bed, half-folded tops beside her, scrolling through Twitter without meaning to. It was mostly noise—fashion accounts reposting Paris week schedules, a few fan edits from her last film, the usual.
Then she saw it: her own face, caught mid-laugh in the stands during Riccardo’s match. Not beside him. Not holding hands. Just watching.
But that was enough.
“She’d make such a chic Arsenal WAG??”
“Petition to set her up with someone on the team. Calafiori maybe? She has good taste.”
“Imagine her in the box at the Emirates in a Margiela trench coat. Power couple potential.”
Her eyebrows lifted in quiet amusement.
— People are manifesting my love life again, she muttered, setting the phone down with a soft thud.
Her brother peeked in from the hallway.
— Is it the memes or the conspiracy theories?
She smirked.
— Neither. This time they’re trying to ship me with a player.
— Let me guess... tall, Italian, lives some floors above?
She laughed.
— They don’t know that part.
— Yet.
The guest room was still full of half-packed pieces when she left it behind, hoodie draped over her shoulders, sunglasses low on her nose. She texted Riccardo a simple:
“Are you home?”
His reply came seconds later.
"Yeah. Come up?"
She didn’t even bother tying her shoes.
When he opened the door, he looked like he hadn’t moved from the couch since the game—t-shirt, sweats, his hair still a little damp from the shower. The match replay was on mute behind him.
— Hey.
— Hi.
She stepped in, familiar now with the scent of his place, the quiet. He closed the door behind her gently. Her hands slipped into the front pocket of her hoodie.
— You’ve been packing?
She shrugged.
— Started. Got distracted. The internet’s matchmaking me with someone on your team.
Riccardo gave her a look.
— Let me guess... not Jorginho.
She laughed, leaning her hip against the edge of his kitchen counter.
— Nope. You. Apparently I’d make a good Arsenal WAG.
— They’re right.
She tilted her head, smiling without showing teeth.
— You think?
He walked over to her slowly, something almost lazy in his posture, but his eyes never left her.
— You’d be the best one we’ve ever had. No contest.
She looked down, then back up again, her gaze soft.
— What if I don’t want to be a WAG?
Riccardo’s voice was quieter now, warm.
— Then you’d still be... you. With me.
She blinked at him for a beat, then nodded once, subtle. Like she was absorbing it. Or maybe agreeing.
He leaned in to kiss her temple, but her hand reached up mid-motion, stopping him gently by the collar of his shirt.
— C’mon. I’m not ready to be soft right now. Let’s do something.
— Something?
— Anything. Let’s play video games. Or cook. Or organize your books by color. I don’t care. Just don’t want to think about packing or Paris for a while. Take me somewhere or don’t, but just... keep me moving.
He watched her for a second, his mouth twitching like he was trying not to smile too obviously.
— Alright. Let’s make lunch. You cut. I’ll burn things.
— Fair deal.
Lunch turned into controlled chaos—neither of them particularly skilled, but both surprisingly coordinated. She found it funny how Riccardo insisted on reading the pasta box instructions like it was a tactical playbook, squinting at the print and mumbling to himself in Italian.
— You do realize it’s just boiling water, right?
— Boiling it correctly, though. Timing is everything.
She leaned against the counter, slicing cherry tomatoes with unnecessary precision. He stood next to her, barefoot and relaxed, brushing her shoulder every now and then as he moved around. It was all easy—so easy that it felt like they’d done it a hundred times before.
When everything was finally done (a slightly overcooked pasta, and a caprese salad that she saved from disaster), they sat side by side on his couch, two plates balanced on their laps, half-watching whatever show was playing in the background.
— You know, this is kind of domestic, she murmured, glancing at him from the side of her eye.
He looked over, a lazy smile forming.
— Are you scared?
— No. Not this time.
— Good.
They sat there like that until her phone buzzed with a reminder about a packing deadline she was determined to ignore.
— Should I head down and actually start putting things in a suitcase?
— Only if you want to.
— I don’t.
She didn’t move.
He didn’t let her.
They didn’t rush toward anything. It wasn’t a look, or a dramatic pause—it was just the way she reached over and rested her palm on his chest as she spoke, the way his hand naturally found her knee without thinking. It was the way her voice softened when she said his name, and the way he tilted his head just enough to listen like it was the only thing that mattered.
There was no question in the air when she leaned in—no space left for it. Her mouth met his slowly, with that same sense of quiet inevitability that had been threading through their days lately.
He kissed her back just as naturally, one hand finding the side of her face like muscle memory, the other still resting on her leg. It wasn’t desperate. It was known. Familiar, in a way that felt much older than them.
When they eventually made it to his bedroom, it wasn’t with urgency, but with quiet care—her fingertips trailing across his jawline, his hands steady on her hips as if reassuring her he wasn’t going anywhere.
There was heat, yes—but more than that, there was presence. Eyes open. Hands slow. The kind of intimacy that didn’t come from absence or heartbreak or fireworks, but from the comfort of letting yourself be seen.
After, she rested her cheek against his chest, fingers idly tracing invisible shapes along his ribs. The window was still open. Light pooled onto the floor in soft afternoon fragments.
— You’re leaving soon, he said, more statement than question.
— Not today.
He kissed her temple, breathing her in like he could hold her there a little longer with that alone.
She sat cross-legged on the guest bed, half-folded tops beside her, scrolling through Twitter without meaning to. It was mostly noise—fashion accounts reposting Cannes schedules, a few fan edits from her last film, the usual.
Then she saw it: her own face, caught mid-laugh in the stands during Riccardo’s match. Not beside him. Not holding hands. Just watching.
But that was enough.
“She’d make such a chic Arsenal WAG??”
“Petition to set her up with someone on the team. Calafiori maybe? She has good taste.”
“Imagine her in the box at the Emirates in a Margiela trench coat. Power couple potential.”
Her eyebrows lifted in quiet amusement.
— People are manifesting my love life again, she muttered, setting the phone down with a soft thud.
Her brother peeked in from the hallway.
— Is it the memes or the conspiracy theories?
She smirked.
— Neither. This time they’re trying to ship me with a player.
— Let me guess... tall, Italian, lives some floors above?
She laughed.
— They don’t know that part.
— Yet.
The guest room was still full of half-packed pieces when she left it behind, hoodie draped over her shoulders, sunglasses low on her nose. She texted Riccardo a simple:
“Are you home?”
His reply came seconds later.
"Yeah. Come up?"
She didn’t even bother tying her shoes.
When he opened the door, he looked like he hadn’t moved from the couch since the game—t-shirt, sweats, his hair still a little damp from the shower. The match replay was on mute behind him.
— Hey.
— Hi.
She stepped in, familiar now with the scent of his place, the quiet. He closed the door behind her gently. Her hands slipped into the front pocket of her hoodie.
— You’ve been packing?
She shrugged.
— Started. Got distracted. The internet’s matchmaking me with someone on your team.
Riccardo gave her a look.
— Let me guess... not Jorginho.
She laughed, leaning her hip against the edge of his kitchen counter.
— Nope. You. Apparently I’d make a good Arsenal WAG.
— They’re right.
She tilted her head, smiling without showing teeth.
— You think?
He walked over to her slowly, something almost lazy in his posture, but his eyes never left her.
— You’d be the best one we’ve ever had. No contest.
She looked down, then back up again, her gaze soft.
— What if I don’t want to be a WAG?
Riccardo’s voice was quieter now, warm.
— Then you’d still be... you. With me.
She blinked at him for a beat, then nodded once, subtle. Like she was absorbing it. Or maybe agreeing.
He leaned in to kiss her temple, but her hand reached up mid-motion, stopping him gently by the collar of his shirt.
— C’mon. I’m not ready to be soft right now. Let’s do something.
— Something?
— Anything. Let’s play video games. Or cook. Or organize your books by color. I don’t care. Just don’t want to think about packing or Cannes for a while. Take me somewhere or don’t, but just... keep me moving.
He watched her for a second, his mouth twitching like he was trying not to smile too obviously.
— Alright. Let’s make lunch. You cut. I’ll burn things.
— Fair deal.
Lunch turned into controlled chaos—neither of them particularly skilled, but both surprisingly coordinated. She found it funny how Riccardo insisted on reading the pasta box instructions like it was a tactical playbook, squinting at the print and mumbling to himself in Italian.
— You do realize it’s just boiling water, right?
— Boiling it correctly, though. Timing is everything.
She leaned against the counter, slicing cherry tomatoes with unnecessary precision. He stood next to her, barefoot and relaxed, brushing her shoulder every now and then as he moved around. It was all easy—so easy that it felt like they’d done it a hundred times before.
When everything was finally done (a slightly overcooked pasta, and a caprese salad that she saved from disaster), they sat side by side on his couch, two plates balanced on their laps, half-watching whatever show was playing in the background.
— You know, this is kind of domestic, she murmured, glancing at him from the side of her eye.
He looked over, a lazy smile forming.
— Are you scared?
— No. Not this time.
— Good.
They sat there like that until her phone buzzed with a reminder about a packing deadline she was determined to ignore.
— Should I head down and actually start putting things in a suitcase?
— Only if you want to.
— I don’t.
She didn’t move.
He didn’t let her.
They didn’t rush toward anything. It wasn’t a look, or a dramatic pause—it was just the way she reached over and rested her palm on his chest as she spoke, the way his hand naturally found her knee without thinking. It was the way her voice softened when she said his name, and the way he tilted his head just enough to listen like it was the only thing that mattered.
There was no question in the air when she leaned in—no space left for it. Her mouth met his slowly, with that same sense of quiet inevitability that had been threading through their days lately.
He kissed her back just as naturally, one hand finding the side of her face like muscle memory, the other still resting on her leg. It wasn’t desperate. It was known. Familiar, in a way that felt much older than them.
When they eventually made it to his bedroom, it wasn’t with urgency, but with quiet care—her fingertips trailing across his jawline, his hands steady on her hips as if reassuring her he wasn’t going anywhere.
There was heat, yes—but more than that, there was presence. Eyes open. Hands slow. The kind of intimacy that didn’t come from absence or heartbreak or fireworks, but from the comfort of letting yourself be seen.
After, she rested her cheek against his chest, fingers idly tracing invisible shapes along his ribs. The window was still open. Light pooled onto the floor in soft afternoon fragments.
— You’re leaving soon, he said, more statement than question.
— Not today.
He kissed her temple, breathing her in like he could hold her there a little longer with that alone.
hi I really like your series it’s amazing !! I wanted to ask about I really like your pictures inspired do you have a Pinterest bored about the story or something 💕
hiii, thank you sm!! and to be honest i don't, i just go searching for pictures that have the vibe i imagined for the chapter and download them straight away
She woke up with the soft gray light of London filtering through the curtains. There was a moment—still tangled in dreams and warmth—when she didn’t quite remember where she was. But then she recognized the texture of the guest bed sheets, the faint hum of the city beyond the windows, and her brother's playlist faintly playing from the kitchen.
Still wrapped in sleep, she reached for her phone. No missed calls. One message—from Riccardo.
"Didn’t want to say it last night, but I left my charger here last time. Not a move, promise."
"Unless you want it to be."
She rolled her eyes, smiling into the pillow. She didn’t reply just yet. Instead, she lay there for a moment longer, letting her thoughts settle.
There was Cannes. Last fitting in two days, then the festival, a series of brand events, red carpet premieres, a cascade of press calls, afterparties, and a dinner with her french publicist. A whirlwind she’d been through a hundred times. What Riccardo didn’t know—what no one really knew—was that once Cannes ended, she wouldn’t be returning to London right away. Her Madrid apartment called to her in ways London still didn’t. Familiarity. Silence. Her own bed. A city that had seen her at her worst and her boldest.
But it wasn’t the time to think about that.
She pulled herself out of bed, starting her morning routine on autopilot—brushing teeth, tying her curls back into a loose bun, beginning the soft choreography of her skincare ritual like muscle memory. As she padded into the kitchen, her brother was already plating toast.
— Morning, sleepyhead — he teased. — You and your ‘friend’ talked until late.
She gave him a look, leaning on the counter. — We talked, yes. Don’t give me that tone.
He shrugged. — Didn’t say anything. Just noting the vibe.
He passed her a mug. — So, today—what’s the plan? More writing? That café in Soho you like?
She nodded. — Yeah, I’ll go after breakfast. Need to finish a few pieces before Cannes. And check in with the Vogue team.
He gave her a sideways glance. — You haven’t told him, have you?
Her fingers tapped against the mug. — Told him what?
— That you’re going to Madrid after Cannes.
She paused. — There’s nothing to tell yet.
He didn’t push, just gave her that quiet, knowing look only a brother could give. — Just don’t vanish without a word. Some people might notice this time.
She gave him a small smile, then stood. — I’ll be back later. Don’t forget the maintenance guy’s coming.
With that, she pulled on her coat and slipped out, earbuds in, heels clicking gently on the pavement as she walked toward the café she liked to write in. Her mind was already turning over work things, plot outlines, half-formed sentences.
But somewhere—beneath all of that—Riccardo still lingered, a recent softness at the back of her mind.
Riccardo woke up to the usual buzz of training day mornings. His alarm hadn’t even gone off yet—years of muscle memory did the job before technology could. Outside, the sky was still half asleep, moody and dim, clouds dragging like they always did in London.
He sat up slowly, stretching his arms behind his head, and ran a hand through his hair. His phone was face-down on the bedside table, but he already knew what he was hoping to see. He picked it up anyway.
Still no reply from her. That didn’t mean anything. She was busy. That was something he liked about her, actually—how much she had going on. How she built her day with precision and still made space for softness when she wanted to. He’d never met someone like that. It wasn’t intimidating, just... grounding.
He threw on his Arsenal hoodie, grabbed a protein bar, and headed to the training center.
By the time he arrived, the place was already humming with movement. Staff walking briskly, the smell of fresh grass in the air, a few teammates already there for early prep. He greeted a few with a nod or a lazy grin, then settled into the rhythm of pre-match prep—warm-ups, tactical run-throughs, team talk with Arteta.
A home match tonight. Nothing massive, but still important enough to count. Important enough for him to care.
Somewhere between drills, he remembered she’d be heading to Cannes soon. He didn’t know the details, didn’t ask—but he figured she’d disappear for a few days. Maybe more. She’d hinted at it once or twice. And it didn’t bother him... yet. Still, part of him liked the idea that she might come to the match. Not because she had to, but because she wanted to. As he slipped into the team bus, he saw a message light up on his phone.
“Me and my brother are coming to the match tonight. Don’t let him turn into a full-blown fanboy.”
He smiled to himself and leaned his head back against the seat, warmth blooming low in his chest.
“Noted. I’ll behave. You just cheer loud enough to distract me.”
He set the phone down and looked out the window, letting himself sit in that feeling for a beat before driving off.
Her brother knocked on her door twice before pushing it open without waiting. — You ready or do I need to lie to Riccardo and tell him you’re stuck in traffic?
She emerged from the bathroom, slipping a coat over her shoulders. — I’ve been ready. You’re the one who took thirty years to find a clean hoodie.
— It’s vintage Arsenal — he defended, straightening the sleeves with mock seriousness. — Respect the drip.
She rolled her eyes, but she smiled. There was something cozy about the moment—being in London, spending time with him again, going to a match. It reminded her of their childhood weekends going to games with their dad. This was familiar. But new, too.
As they got into the car, she glanced at herself in the rearview mirror—not to fix anything, just to check. Simple look tonight: tailored jeans, black boots, one of her oversized coats, and her hair down, still a bit wavy from earlier. Chill but polished. The kind of cool that didn’t try too hard.
He nudged her in the side. — You look... I mean, you always look expensive, but this one’s like, stadium chic.
— Thanks, I was going for ‘casual muse who might end up on the jumbotron’
The drive was mostly quiet, the kind of comfortable silence only siblings shared. But at one point, he turned to her more seriously. — So... you two.
She raised an eyebrow. — What about us?
— I don’t know. You’ve been smiling more. And he’s cool. Like, genuinely cool. I get it.
She didn’t say anything for a beat, then shrugged. — It’s not anything official. We’re just... vibing.
He laughed. — That’s exactly what someone says before it gets serious.
She stared out the window, letting the glow of the stadium lights begin to rise in the distance. Her stomach fluttered a little—not nerves, but something adjacent. Something softer.
As they got out of the car, the crowd buzzed around them. Fans in red and white jerseys, the scent of food trucks and beer in the air, the cold biting just enough to make her press her coat closer to her.
— Do we go in as civilians, or do you have special treatment now? — her brother teased.
She laughed. — Civilians. For now.
He looked smug. — Let’s go scream at your almost-boyfriend.
She gave him a gentle shove and they walked toward the entrance, shoulders bumping now and then, the stadium roaring louder with every step.
The stadium was electric.
Riccardo stood in the tunnel, boots tapping against concrete, arms flexing at his sides to keep warm. The roar of the crowd was distant but steady, like a heartbeat pulsing through the walls. He’d gotten used to it—the rush of it, the adrenaline—but tonight felt different. There was an odd awareness in his chest, like a string pulling him toward the stands.
As they walked out onto the pitch, the crowd erupted in waves. He squinted under the floodlights, scanning the sea of faces. It wasn’t like he could actually spot her from there. But he still looked. Just in case.
The whistle blew.
And for ninety minutes, Riccardo was all instinct and focus. Tracking movement, timing passes, holding the line. He played sharp, solid. Even when the opposing striker got too close, he didn’t flinch. He felt… calm. Grounded.
Somewhere, maybe, because he knew she was out there. Watching. Or at least hoping she was.
The second half began with a shift in tempo. Arsenal pushed higher, faster—crisper passes, more aggression. And Riccardo? He was everywhere. Anticipating plays before they even formed, breaking lines with effortless composure.
In the 68th minute, the crowd surged as he stepped forward on a counter. It was unusual—him this far up the pitch—but instinct had pulled him there. A clean one-two on the wing, a sliver of space just outside the box. He didn’t think. Just struck.
The ball curled cleanly into the far corner.
The eruption was instant.
Fans screamed, arms flung into the sky. His teammates swarmed him, and for a moment, he let the celebration wash over him—fists pumping, grin split wide. But once the chaos settled and they jogged back to their positions, his eyes lifted again toward the stands.
And even though he couldn’t find her, he felt her reaction anyway.
Later, in stoppage time, he floated the assist—a sharp cross into the box that curled right to the striker’s boot. 3–0. Final whistle. He’d dominated both ends of the pitch.
Masterclass.
After the game, her brother had been the one who spotted Riccardo first, nudging her with a subtle grin as the defender emerged from the tunnel with that same windswept, post-game glow. Still damp hair, flushed cheeks, training jacket lazily zipped—it was the kind of disheveled that only looked good on people like him.
— Man of the match — her brother said under his breath, clapping low and slow.
Riccardo caught the gesture and grinned. — You saw that goal, right?
— Hard to miss — he replied. — You’re not bad for a defender.
Riccardo laughed, shaking his head. — Coming from a neighbor, I’ll take it.
He turned to her, eyes catching hers in that unspoken way they were starting to get used to. — And you?
She tilted her head with a sly smile. — You were okay, I guess. Thought you might disappear with the man of the match award — she said as he approached, her voice soft but teasing.
Riccardo’s grin cracked instantly. — Scored one for you, you know.
That made her laugh. Low, soft. — You’re ridiculous.
The banter continued as they walked toward the exit, her in between both men—elbows brushing occasionally, the air around them still buzzing with stadium energy.
They ended up at a tucked-away trattoria Riccardo liked—low lighting, mismatched wooden chairs, the kind of place where the staff greeted him by name and didn’t blink when he walked in post-match still smelling faintly of grass and victory.
Her brother looked around, approving. — Feels like we’re about to have real food.
— I’m not risking your sister judging my taste — Riccardo replied with a smirk, pulling out her chair before sitting down himself.
She raised an eyebrow. — You say that like I haven’t judged you already.
— Harsh — he murmured, grinning as he opened a bottle of red the waiter brought without needing to ask.
The conversation drifted effortlessly—football, family, her brother’s latest project, the tiny quirks of the building they all now shared. It wasn’t forced or overly intimate, just the easy rhythm of three people finding their groove.
She caught Riccardo watching her when she laughed too hard at something her brother said, his hand resting beside hers on the table, not quite touching but close enough to feel it.
He didn’t need to say anything. Not tonight.
After the plates were cleared, dessert declined, and her brother excused himself to take a quick call outside, the two were left alone for a beat.
— He likes you — she said quietly, sipping her wine.
Riccardo glanced at the door where her brother had disappeared, then back to her. — Yeah?
She nodded. — He doesn’t say much when he doesn’t.
Riccardo leaned in slightly, voice soft. — What about you?
She gave him a long look—eyes glinting in the dim light. — You’re growing on me.
He laughed, leaning back, the sound low and warm. — I’ll take it.
As they got into their building The elevator doors glided open and the three of them stepped in, comfortably quiet. Her brother leaned against the mirrored panel, loosening his coat collar.
— Think that goal’s gonna be all over my timeline by morning — he muttered with a grin toward Riccardo.
Riccardo smirked — It better.
She laughed softly, shoulders relaxing as she leaned slightly into the space between them.
As the elevator neared her brother’s floor, she glanced at Riccardo. Just a small look, but it was enough. The doors opened. Her brother stepped out first, then paused when he noticed she wasn’t following.
— You coming? — he asked, confused but casual.
She shook her head. — I think I’ll hang out a little longer with Richy, if that’s okay with him.
Riccardo’s lips lifted at the corner, that quiet smile he always gave her when she caught him off guard.
— Yeah — he said, voice low but certain. — Of course.
Her brother didn’t press it. He just raised a brow and smirked, then pointed a finger like a mock warning. — Don’t let him keep you up too late, alright?
She rolled her eyes. — Good night.
— Night, you two.
The doors slid closed again, leaving just her and Riccardo in the soft-lit elevator, the hum of motion beneath their feet. She turned toward him, her tone a touch lighter now.
— You sure it’s okay?
He looked down at her, hand brushing along hers again. — I was wishing for this.
When they reached his floor, there was no hesitation. His place was warm, dimly lit in the way that made everything feel softer. One lamp on in the corner of the living room, casting a golden wash across the space. She stepped in slowly, taking her time, slipping her coat off and setting it over the back of a chair like she belonged here. Like she didn’t need to ask.
Riccardo locked the door behind them and came to stand near her, watching the way she moved, how she walked over to the window like she always did—curious, quiet, present.
London’s nightscape sprawled beyond the glass. She looked back over her shoulder, lips gently parted like she wanted to say something, but didn’t.
— I like your place — she said finally, barely above a whisper.
He smiled and crossed to where she was. — I like it when you’re in it.
That made her laugh softly, but she didn’t move away when he got closer. Just looked up at him, the silence between them the kind that felt natural, not heavy. Her body still held the warmth from the stadium, the buzz of energy that hadn’t quite faded.
She brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, glancing at him. — I can’t believe that assist. That whole turn was insane.
He smirked. — You liked that?
— I think everyone did. I saw the way the whole stadium lit up.
She tilted her head toward the couch and he followed her instinctively. They sat close, their knees nearly touching. Her eyes drifted over the space, then back to him.
— It’s strange — she said, fingers trailing the seam of a cushion. — How normal this feels already.
He didn’t say anything at first. He just reached out—slowly, like giving her space to pull back—and brushed his thumb along the back of her hand.
She met his gaze, steady and sure, then shifted slightly closer. The kind of closeness that didn’t demand anything, just offered it.
— I’m staying in London for a few more days — she murmured, her voice lower now.
He nodded, watching her.
— And then I’ll be in Cannes for the festival — she added.
His brow lifted slightly. — And after?
There was a flicker in her eyes. Not hesitation, just thought. — After… probably Madrid.
Riccardo didn’t react too much. He just leaned back slightly, processing it, nodding once like he respected it. But before he could speak, she looked at him with that bold softness of hers and added, —But I haven’t booked anything yet.
That meant something.
They sat in the quiet again for a beat. And then, almost without thinking, she leaned in—still mid-conversation—and kissed him. Just like that. It wasn’t rehearsed or dramatic, just her lips on his in the soft hush of the moment, like punctuation on a sentence she hadn’t finished saying.
Riccardo responded instantly, his hand coming to her waist like he’d been waiting for her to make that move. The kiss deepened slowly, warmly, with the weight of everything unspoken melting between them. It felt like they already knew each other’s rhythms—like something that was supposed to happen finally had. When they pulled apart, her forehead lingered against his.
Neither of them said a word. They didn’t need to. It was quiet in that way the night only gets when it’s just the two of you and something’s shifted. Their rhythm had changed. Something deeper had slipped into place between glances, between words left unsaid.
At one point, her hand reached for his as he was speaking, fingers curling around his without thought. And once it was there, neither of them let go.
When the hour grew late and the weight of the day started to settle on her shoulders, she leaned into him. Head on his shoulder. Breath evening out. He shifted slightly to make her more comfortable, resting his cheek gently against her hair.
— Do you want to stay? — he asked quietly, barely more than a murmur.
She nodded, almost sleepily. — Yeah. Just… like this.
No pressure. No questions. Just comfort. Just quiet.
Later, he offered her a t-shirt and something to wash her face with, and she disappeared into the bathroom. When she came out, she wore his shirt and a sleepy smile, her jewelry still glinting faintly against her skin. He was already in bed, leaning back against the pillows, flipping through his phone.
— I’ll take the couch — he said quickly, not wanting her to feel pushed into anything.
But she shook her head, soft and decisive. — You won’t. I don't want you to. And I know you're not even sleepy yet.
He raised a brow. — And you are?
— Completely — She padded over quietly and slipped in beside him. The room went still again.
For a while, they just talked—low, late-night conversation about nothing and everything. She told him about a director she might meet in Paris. He told her a story from training, one that had her laughing into his shoulder. Her hand drifted up to rest along his collarbone, fingers tracing absent-minded patterns on his skin.
There were more kisses—slow and languid now, like they had time. A different kind of intimacy—close, quiet, and unguarded. They didn’t rush. They didn’t need to.
Eventually, her head found its way to his chest, his arm wrapping around her like it belonged there. She yawned once, barely stifling it.
— You’re not leaving tomorrow, right? — he asked into the darkness, his voice low and rough with sleep.
— No — she mumbled. — Still here.
Riccardo smiled to himself in the dark, settling in as her breathing evened out beside him. She was still here.
The kettle clicked off with a soft pop, and the smell of mint tea rose with the steam as she poured herself a mug in her brother’s warm, minimalist kitchen. He was seated at the counter, scrolling idly through emails on his tablet, still in the faded Real Madrid hoodie she’d brought him back from a press trip in Spain three years ago.
— You’ve been awfully glowy lately — he said, quickly looking up.
She arched a brow and sipped her tea. — Skincare. Maybe joy. Maybe divine intervention.
He snorted. — Or maybe Calafiori.
A beat. She didn’t say anything, just leaned against the counter, letting her smirk be answer enough.
— You know — he added, actually glancing up now — I see the man more in passing than I see my own neighbor. He’s always going somewhere. Polite. Quiet. Ridiculously tall. Very punctual with packages.
She laughed softly, swirling her tea. — Sounds like the kind of man you’d want around your sister.
— Exactly — he replied, deadpan. — So when am I seeing him not just in the elevator?
She tilted her head, watching him. — Are you asking me to bring him over?
He grinned. — No. I’m just saying... if he happens to be around again, maybe don’t let him escape this time.
She paused for a moment, her gaze drifting toward the windows, the city humming outside. She and Riccardo had seen each other every day since Notting Hill—quick lunches, quiet walks, even a stolen hour on her balcony under the late spring sun. They hadn’t labeled anything, but it was undeniable. They were something. And maybe it was time to stop pretending otherwise.
— Okay — she said simply. — I’ll invite him.
Her brother arched a brow. — Tonight?
She smirked. — You’re the one who asked.
He lifted his hands. — Fair. But I’m not changing out of this hoodie.
— You’d better — she said, already grabbing her phone.
Just a few floors up, Riccardo had just finished changing out of his training kit when her message came through:
“My brother says you’ve been escaping him. Dinner at ours tonight?”
He stared at it for a moment, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The ‘ours’ made something soft settle in his chest.
“Escaping wasn’t the plan. What time should I come down?”
he typed back.
She didn’t answer right away—but when she did, it was just a simple:
“Come by at eight. And bring that neighborly charm.”
Her brother had put on a proper shirt—though he insisted it was purely because he was out of clean hoodies. Reader didn’t call him out on the lie. Instead, she focused on finishing the salad and adjusting the table. The kitchen smelled like roasted garlic and lemon—her touch—and her brother had handled the wine, insisting on opening the “good bottle” like this was some sort of diplomatic event.
At exactly 8 p.m., a knock. She opened the door to Riccardo standing there in a navy sweater and charcoal trousers, holding a bottle of red and a small box from the bakery down the street.
— For dessert — he said, lifting the box a little. —And to earn points with your brother.
She leaned against the doorframe, amused. — Already playing strategy?
— Always— he said, and stepped in.
— Riccardo — her brother greeted him with a grin, surprisingly relaxed as he came around the counter. — We finally meet properly.
— Finally — Riccardo said, shaking his hand. — Thanks for letting me crash your evening.
— Please. She’s the one who invited you. I’m just here for the food.
They all laughed, and something easy settled in the room. There was no awkwardness, no forced small talk. They moved toward the kitchen island where everything was already laid out: pasta, salad, warm bread in a napkin-lined bowl. Riccardo handed over the wine, and her brother raised an impressed brow.
— You brought the good stuff.
Riccardo just smiled. — Told you—strategy.
Dinner flowed smoothly. Her brother teased her just enough to keep Riccardo entertained, and Riccardo offered back quick comebacks that made her laugh. They talked football, London life, the building’s weird heating system.
At one point, her brother leaned over to Riccardo and said. — She makes a scary to-do list, by the way. If she invites you to help with errands, run."
Riccardo just glanced at her with a grin. — I think I’d risk it.
After dinner, they cleared plates together. Reader stacked them, Riccardo rinsed, her brother offered vague help before abandoning them for the couch and a football recap. When she walked Riccardo to the door later, the hallway was quiet. He turned to her before she opened it.
— Your brother’s alright — he said softly.
— He likes you — she replied. — Which is impressive. He barely likes me.
He chuckled. — Do you want me to text when I get up?
— You’re literally three floors away.
He shrugged, that boyish charm lighting up his face. — Doesn’t mean I don’t want an excuse.
She leaned up, kissed him on the cheek. — Text me anyway.
And she closed the door, smiling as his footsteps echoed down the hall.
Three floors up, Riccardo stepped into his apartment, shoes off with a practiced nudge and jacket slung over the nearest chair. It was quiet—soft, warm quiet. The kind that still buzzed faintly from the dinner’s afterglow. He pulled out his phone and typed:
“You know, your brother’s funny. And terrifying. And I think I just agreed to help him build a shelf?”
Sent.
The screen stayed open, waiting for her dots to appear.
Downstairs, she was still smiling when the message came in. Her brother had dropped onto the couch again, flipping between streaming options with the boredom of someone who refused to commit to anything longer than twenty minutes.
— He likes you — he said casually, not looking away from the screen. — Not just the football stuff either. You look good with him.
She glanced at her phone before replying to Riccardo, a flicker of warmth rising in her chest.
“Better you build a shelf than try to beat me at Mario Kart. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Then to her brother, she said lightly — We’re not… anything. Just hanging out.
— Sure — he replied with a snort. — You ‘hang out’ with everyone like that?
She threw a pillow at him, laughing. — Good night.
But as she brushed her teeth and tied her hair up for bed, the texts still played in her head. Not just what they’d written—but the fact that it felt normal. Easy. The way things only feel when they’re on the edge of something bigger, something real.
It wasn’t anything official—no plans, no calendar notes. Just a soft, unspoken rhythm that began to form over the next few days.
Riccardo came by more often now, sometimes with food, sometimes with nothing but time. He and her brother slipped into an oddly natural dynamic. They weren’t quite friends yet, but the way they debated over football and traded kitchen shortcuts, it was headed that way. The shelf incident became a running joke before it was even halfway assembled.
— Did you just skip step four entirely? — her brother asked, holding a piece of wood like it personally offended him.
— I respected its memory and moved on — Riccardo replied, squinting at the instructions.
She sat cross-legged on the floor, sipping tea and absolutely not helping, though her commentary came with full force.
— Between the two of you, I’ve never seen something look less like a shelf and more like a modern art installation.
She ended up helping anyway—if only to prevent disaster—and an hour later, it stood. A little crooked, but standing.
Later that evening, they sprawled across the living room—her brother flipping through a magazine, Riccardo tapping through songs on his phone, and Reader sketching ideas on her tablet, half-focused. It was quiet, but not empty. Filled with that particular ease that came from shared space, shared time.
When her brother excused himself for a shower, Riccardo nudged her knee with his. — Do you usually let people hang around this much?
She looked up from her screen, one brow raised. — Only the ones who survive building furniture with my brother.
— Then I guess I’m halfway in your inner circle.
— Halfway? — she echoed, teasing.
He grinned. — Trying to be modest.
And maybe neither of them said what that meant—but there was no rush. Some things didn’t need a name to be real.
She closed her tablet with a satisfied little sigh, leaning back against the couch, stretching out her legs until her foot lightly bumped his. Neither of them moved.
— You’re surprisingly good with my brother — she said eventually, voice soft with a bit of surprise tucked beneath the words.
Riccardo tilted his head toward her, smiling lazily. — Surprisingly?
— You know. Football player. Flirting problem. Allegedly. — Her lips curved into a smirk.
— Allegedly — he repeated with mock offense. — I’ll have you know I’m very wholesome. See? I built furniture today.
— Crooked furniture — she deadpanned, but she nudged his foot back gently.
— I like him — Riccardo added after a beat, quieter now. — He’s chill. And he clearly adores you.
Her smile softened, the teasing edge fading into something warm. — Yeah… he’s the only person who’s seen me at every stage and still thinks I’m the best thing ever.
— He’s not wrong.
She blinked, not quite ready for how easily he’d said it. For how sincere it sounded.
Riccardo didn’t look away.
There was a brief pause—one of those moments where silence wasn’t awkward but charged, expectant. Her heart fluttered, but she didn’t move back. She let the closeness settle instead, let the comfort build.
And then, without really thinking about it, she shifted slightly—tucking her legs to the side and leaning into him like she’d done it a thousand times before. Her head rested against his shoulder, her fingers lightly brushing his arm. He froze only for a second before his body relaxed into hers, letting out a quiet breath like he’d been waiting for this and didn’t want to disturb it.
— I don’t usually stay long when I’m in one place — she murmured. — Or let anyone stay around me.
— I’m not anyone.
— No — she agreed, eyelids fluttering. — You’re not.
They stayed like that—quiet, close, no labels, no plans. Just the low hum of the evening wrapping around them like a shared secret.
They’d fallen into conversation the way people do when neither wants to say goodnight—wandering from childhood stories to music, from favorite movies to why certain streets in London always feel like rain even when the sun’s out.
— I can’t believe you’ve never seen Volver — she said, half-smiling as she tilted her head toward him. — You’re lucky I like you. I could never trust someone who didn’t cry watching it.
He chuckled, eyes warm as they met hers. — Guess I’ll have to watch it, then. But I’m warning you, I’m more of a silent cry guy.
She gave a quiet laugh, that kind of laugh that disappears into a soft breath when things start to slow down. Their eyes lingered just a second too long. Not awkward. Not charged. Just… still.
And then something shifted.
Not a dramatic pause. Just the quiet realization that neither of them had looked away. That her hand had moved slightly, resting near his thigh, and his fingers had just barely brushed her forearm.
She looked at him, not quite smiling back—but holding the moment still in her gaze.
And then she kissed him.
No preamble. No pause. No carefully plotted look between eyes and mouth.
Just a quiet shift forward, a hand lightly resting on his collarbone, and her mouth meeting his in that soft, steady way that left no room for question—just certainty. It wasn’t dramatic or hungry or rehearsed. It was a whisper of a kiss. Real and full and warm.
He stilled only for a moment, surprised not by the kiss itself, but by how inevitable it had felt. Like he’d known, somewhere deep down, that she would be the one to do it. And that he wouldn’t need to say a word when she did.
His hand came up to cradle her jaw, but he didn’t pull her closer. He didn’t need to. They were already there.
When she pulled back—not far, just enough for air—her eyes didn’t waver.
— I wanted to — she said quietly, like it was the simplest thing in the world.
His smile was slow and honest. — I’m glad you did.
They stayed like that for a while—close, quiet, still tasting the softness of that first kiss in the silence that followed. Neither of them moved to break the moment. They just let it stretch, content in the warmth of what had finally, finally happened.
The sky was still silver when she woke—quiet, still, wrapped in the comfort of soft linens and the far-off hum of a city that hadn't fully woken up yet. She rolled onto her side, checked the time—5:02—and smiled to herself. Still early enough to pretend the day didn’t quite exist yet.
Her feet hit the floor with purpose. Bare, she walked across the cool wooden floors of her brother’s flat, loose cotton pants swinging low on her hips, hoodie sleeves swallowed over her hands. She made her way to the bathroom first, tying her hair back into a slick, sharp bun with practiced ease, before turning on the warm water and lining up her skincare products on the marble counter like tiny soldiers.
She’s already showered and dressed by the time the sunlight pours through the living room windows. A script sits on the table, her laptop open beside it, half a scene highlighted in yellow. Coffee in hand, she reads through a monologue again, making quiet mental notes. It’s a new project—just a few weeks in—but it feels good to be working again.
Her brother walks in mid-yawn. — You’ve been up long?
— Couple of hours, — she says, flipping a page. — Trying to get through this scene before I leave.
He gestures to the table with his mug. — What’s this one about?
— A woman having a breakdown in a luxury hotel.
He grins. — So… you?
She gave him a look and he raised his hands in surrender, grinning. — What’s on the agenda today? Taking over the fashion world one heel at a time?
— Writing first, — she said. — Then a meeting at Vogue, and a fitting for Cannes next month.
He nodded, impressed. — Do you sleep? Like—actually sleep? Or is that just a myth created by your PR team?
— I sleep. You snore. Want to keep going?
He laughed. — Nope, I’m good. You want toast?
— Already on it.
He dropped a quick kiss on the top of her head as he walked by, reaching into the cabinet for coffee. — You’re killing it, you know.
The hallway was quiet, washed in soft morning light streaming through the high windows. She stepped out of the apartment with a purposeful stride, the door clicking shut behind her. Her outfit was sharp yet effortless—fitted straight leg jeans, a oversized trench, and a buttoned black cardigan. Her slicked-back bun was precise, earrings catching just enough light, and her makeup was clean, finished, and meant to last. No trace of sleep lingered on her skin; her morning routine had taken care of that.
Just as she reached the elevator, the familiar ding sounded—and when the doors opened, Riccardo was already inside, hoodie half-zipped, hair still slightly damp from his shower, gym bag slung over his shoulder.
— Good morning, — she greeted, stepping in beside him with a half-smile, subtly pleased to see him.
He did a quick, amused once-over. — You’re very… awake.
She raised an eyebrow. — And you’re very damp.
— I was going to say you look scary-efficient.
— That’s because I am, — she replied with a soft click of her heel on the elevator floor. — Meeting at noon. Writing before. Fitting after. You?
— Training, gym, ice bath.
— Chic.
The elevator stopped at the ground floor. She didn’t move yet.
— You’re heading out to write?
She nodded. — Library nearby. Too many distractions at home.
He gave her a small, knowing smile. — You don’t strike me as someone who lets anything distract her.
— Depends on the distraction.
The pause hung for just a second, charged but easy. Then she walked out, and he followed.
At the entrance, she pulled on her sunglasses. He held the door open without comment, just a look that lingered as she passed.
— See you later? — he asked.
— Maybe, — she replied, lips curving at the corners. — If you stretch properly.
And with that, they slipped into the city in opposite directions—both with full days ahead, but with the soft buzz of the other still present in their orbit.
She worked with her signature intensity, going through emails first—quick replies, the occasional soft-but-firm decline, and a couple of forwarded press releases she might use later. Once the admin was out of the way, she opened a draft for her newsletter: a half-finished essay on the intersection of football and fashion, the perfect storm of two of her great obsessions. Words poured easily when she found her rhythm. When she needed a break, she switched to her notebook, letting herself scribble more abstract, less edited thoughts. A few lines of prose. Maybe poetry. Nothing meant for anyone else.
By 11:30, she was in the car to a sleek office in Mayfair, a headquarter dressed in beige tones and silent urgency. The meeting at noon was with the editorial team of a major brand she was about to guest-creative direct for a campaign. Half journalism, half trend forecasting, all her. She navigated it with ease: graceful, opinionated, firm where she had to be. She left the meeting at 13:50, satisfied, already thinking ahead to her fitting later that afternoon.
And somewhere between the lobby and the car, she checked her phone—and found a message from Riccardo, simple and unbothered:
"I’m guessing your schedule’s packed, but I’ve got a feeling you’ll make time for me."
A smile tugged at her lips before she even finished reading it. She leaned her head back against the seat, just for a second, letting the warmth of the message settle in. It was the kind of text that made you feel seen—teasing, but somehow thoughtful. Like he wasn’t just flirting, but paying attention.
She started typing.
"Cocky. But not entirely wrong."
She hesitated, watching the little dot blink in the corner of the screen like a blinking cursor in a half-written memory. Then added another line.
"On my way to a fitting in Notting Hill now. Let me get through tulle and strategic pins and I’ll be human again."
A pause.
"But I’ll be free around 4. Don’t let that go to your head."
She hit send as the car turned down a narrow street, her own reflection flashing briefly in the window. Notting Hill’s charm slowly unfolding outside, painted townhouses, leafy sidewalks, cafés where time always seemed to slow down.
Her phone buzzed again before she could even toss it back on the seat.
"Notting Hill, 4-ish, tulle-survivor edition. Got it. You’ll be glad you made time for me, promise."
Short. Teasing. But there was something else threaded into the edges of it—like he was genuinely looking forward to seeing her, even if he was playing it cool. She didn’t let herself smile too much. But she also didn’t stop herself from rereading the text.
Whenshe arrived, the car had to double park on a quiet side street. The fitting was in one of those discreet studios above a concept boutique—barely marked, the kind of place where fashion insiders slipped in unnoticed and came out transformed.
Upstairs, the atelier space was minimalist but buzzing—racks of garments, mood boards pinned up like collages of dreams, the faint scent of fabric steam and espresso hanging in the air. The stylist had already pulled the pieces she needed to try on: sculptural, rich in texture, with unexpected details—perfect for Cannes, even more perfect on her.
By the time the fitting was over, she had tried around 20 dresses, agreed on shoe changes, and scheduled a round of photos for next week. Efficient. Controlled. Unbothered. She was already slipping back into her coat when the assistant offered to have her driver pull around.
— No need, — she said lightly, already texting Riccardo.
"Free as promised. And looking slightly fabulous. Where should we meet?"
The sun had dipped just enough to cast that warm, honey-gold light over Notting Hill, tinting the white townhouses and iron balconies in something almost cinematic. She didn’t head straight toward their meeting spot. Not yet.
Instead, she took a small detour down one of the quieter streets—past a corner flower stand, where peonies and eucalyptus spilled over wooden crates. Her steps were unhurried, her posture still sharp from the fitting, coat thrown over her arm, phone in hand but ignored for once.
There was something indulgent about being alone in a beautiful place, dressed like that, knowing exactly where she was headed next.
She glanced at her reflection in a shop window—sleek bun still perfect, skin luminous but no longer glowing from effort. Just composed. Cool. Exactly how she liked to feel.
And then she heard it—his voice.
— Might be the first time I’ve ever seen you walk slowly.
She turned with a raised brow, and there he was—leaning against a street lamp like he hadn’t just rushed over, like he hadn’t scanned the street three times before spotting her.
She didn’t say anything at first, just walked those last few steps toward him.
— I walk slowly when I’m in a good mood — she said, eyes glinting.
He straightened with a lazy grin. — So I guess I’ve got that going for me.
— Don’t get ahead of yourself — she replied, but she was already smiling.
He fell into step beside her, easy and familiar, as they started walking—no rush, no clear destination yet.
They wandered with no particular direction, just the kind of meandering that only made sense when you had time and someone you didn’t mind wasting it with. Notting Hill around them buzzed in that soft early-evening way—couples outside cafés, kids with gelato, an old man arguing passionately with his dog.
— So, —she started, glancing sideways at him as he kept his hands tucked in the pockets of his coat, — What’s this ‘feeling’ you had that I’d make time for you?
He tilted his head like he was genuinely considering it. — Call it intuition.
She scoffed lightly. — Call it arrogance.
— Same thing, sometimes.
That made her laugh—low and sudden, the kind of sound that made Riccardo turn his head to really look at her, like he wanted to pocket it for later.
They reached a small courtyard tucked just off the main road—one of those hidden corners with bistro lights strung across the top and mismatched chairs that somehow made the place feel lived in. It wasn’t crowded, just a few people scattered around, half of them lost in books or daydreams.
— I like this place — she said, slowing.
— Never been here, — he admitted. — But I figured you’d like it.
That earned him a slow blink and a smile she didn’t try to hide. — You’re a fast learner.
— I’m Italian, — he shrugged. — We know how to read the signs.
They settled into a table in the corner, sunlight catching on the rim of her sunglasses as she pulled them off and rested her arms on the table. He sat across from her, one leg stretched out, already comfortable.
She ordered tea. He got a cortado. For a while, they didn’t talk about anything big—just the charm of West London, the odd things they’d noticed in British culture, how neither of them could understand why the sockets were so massive.
But slowly, the conversation shifted again.
— You know, I didn’t think you’d actually text, — she said at one point, swirling her spoon around the edges of her teacup.
He looked up. — Why not?
— You seemed… I don’t know. Like someone who gets distracted easily.
He leaned forward just slightly. — I don’t get distracted. I get curious. There’s a difference.
She tilted her head. — And you’re curious about me?
— I already told you. I’m trying to figure out how someone like you exists.
That made her pause. Not flustered, not surprised. Just momentarily quiet—eyes on him like she was recalibrating what kind of game they were playing.
Eventually, she leaned back, smiling.
— Keep talking like that and I might start making time for you again.
He raised his cortado like a toast. — I’m counting on it.
They stayed at the table long enough for the light to shift. She watched it change on the walls around them, turning everything gold. Riccardo didn’t seem in a rush either. He drummed his fingers idly on the table, watching her more than anything else.
Eventually, she pushed her empty cup aside. — Wanna keep walking?
He stood without answering—just nodded like he already knew the answer would be yes. They stepped back into the street, the city mellow and glowing, and started walking without much purpose again, letting their shoes choose the direction.
— Feels like a movie, — she said suddenly, looking around as they passed a bookshop with a blue facade.
He glanced at her. — You’d know better than me.
— Notting Hill, — she clarified, slowing her pace. — The movie.
His face lit up with recognition. — Ah… the travel bookshop. Hugh Grant, right?
She smiled, a little proud. — Exactly. I watched it so many times growing up, I can quote whole scenes.
Riccardo slid his hands into his pockets, amused. — You want me to act one out with you? I’ll be Hugh.
She laughed. — You? You’re way too tall. Hugh Grant was all floppy charm and quiet disaster energy.
— I could be charming and disastrous.
— Disastrously charming, maybe.
They walked past the row of pastel townhouses, light catching on the glossy doors. He let the silence stretch again—an easy one, not awkward. She noticed how he wasn’t afraid of it, how he didn’t fill it with noise the way a lot of people did around her. There was a steadiness in him. It made her want to talk more.
— Do you think about home? — she asked after a beat. — Italy, I mean. Ever get homesick?
He shrugged. — Sometimes. My sister sends me ridiculous voice notes just to mess with me. And I miss the food, obviously. My grandma’s lasagna could solve world problems.
She smiled, nodding. — I miss home all the time, but it’s weird. I miss moments, smells. Not just places.
He looked at her carefully, like he was memorizing it. “You’re really poetic.”
She shrugged with a soft laugh and they walked in rhythm again. Not in sync on purpose—but they moved well beside each other, like two people who didn’t need to adjust their pace too much to keep up.
They passed a mural of swirling pinks and blues and paused. She snapped a photo of it with her phone, angling it just right, then caught Riccardo watching her.
— What?
— Nothing, — he said, almost sheepish. — You just look… really good when you’re in your own world. You’re always seeing something no one else does — he said, not really thinking about it, just letting the thought slip out.
She glanced over at him, half a smile tugging at her lips. — That’s how I feel about acting, actually. Like, I get to collect things—tiny details—and turn them into someone else. It’s weird, but comforting.
He nodded, as if understanding. — I guess football’s like that too, sometimes. You notice things—the rhythm of a player’s step, how fast they breathe—and you know what they’ll do before they do it.
— That’s beautiful — she said, surprised by how easily the admiration slipped into her voice.
He looked down, briefly flustered. — I mean, it’s just... instincts. Patterns.
— No, it’s more than that. It’s like... choreography with instinct. Trusting your body to say what words can’t.
Their eyes met again, and the world softened around them. For a second, they just looked at each other. Not flirtatious—something else entirely. Like they were both trying to figure out what the hell was happening between them and if it was too soon to admit it out loud.
— Do you want to keep walking? — she asked, voice softer now.
— I’d follow you anywhere — he said simply.
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, and her cheeks warmed with something she couldn’t quite shake. They strolled slowly, not in any rush to get anywhere in particular, half-lost in conversation, half-lost in the way the city looked.
Riccardo was beside her, talking about the time he tried to cook carbonara in England and ended up starting a smoke alarm. She laughed—warm and unguarded—and then, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, her fingers brushed against his. Once, twice.
And then they simply intertwined.
It wasn’t a decision, exactly. She didn’t look at him, didn’t announce it. Just reached for his hand mid-laugh, and kept walking. As if it had always been there, this touch. As if her hand had always known where to go.
Riccardo glanced down briefly, the barest smile tugging at his lips. He gave her hand the lightest squeeze. No teasing. No commentary. Just the quiet thrill of something falling into place. The kind of moment you don’t point out because pointing it out might break the spell.
So they kept walking—her hand in his, steps slow and aimless through Notting Hill’s quieter corners. A rhythm found, not created. Her head tilted toward him every now and then, his thumb brushing circles along her knuckles like a thought he couldn’t shake.
The ride back to the building was quiet in the best way—Notting Hill still clinging to them like the last notes of a favorite song. Riccardo drove with one hand resting loosely on the wheel, the other on his thigh, his thumb occasionally tapping to the rhythm of the mellow playlist humming through the car speakers. She sat beside him, head slightly tilted toward the window, skin glowing under the light, a soft smile tugging at her lips for no reason other than how nice it all felt.
They didn’t rush once they arrived. The underground garage welcomed them with a low hum, the car gliding smoothly into its spot. When they stepped out, she adjusted the strap of her bag, her heels clicking lightly against the polished concrete. Side by side, they crossed the lobby—his hand brushing briefly against her lower back out of habit, not intention. Neither commented on it. The silence between them wasn’t awkward; it was full of everything unsaid, everything understood.
The elevator ride was brief. It always was. When they reached her brother’s floor, she turned to him with a small smile, already reaching for her keys.
— Thanks for today — she said, her voice low and warm.
He met her gaze, one side of his mouth pulling into the kind of smile that made her feel seen. — We should get lost together more often.
She smirked, rolling her eyes softly as she stepped out. He chuckled as the doors began to close. She caught his eyes just before they disappeared behind the metal. There was something about the look they shared in that second—playful, charged, familiar. Like they both knew this wasn’t fading anytime soon.
Inside the apartment, she was greeted by the comforting smell of brewed tea and something vaguely cinnamon-scented. Her brother was sprawled on the couch with his laptop and a bowl of cereal that looked like it’d been forgotten halfway through.
— You’re back, — he said without looking up. — Who did you flirt into submission this time?
She dropped her bag by the side table, kicking off her shoes—not because she was tired of them, but because home had that effect on her.
— No one worth bragging about, — she said, grabbing a cup and pouring herself tea like she owned the place—which, technically, she almost did by now.
—Liar, — he said, glancing at her. — That’s your ‘I’m trying not to be obvious’ face. I know that face.
She snorted. — I don’t have that face.
— You absolutely do, — he said, grinning. — And you only wear it when there’s a cute boy involved.
She didn’t reply right away—just sipped her tea and leaned against the kitchen counter, eyes thoughtful.
— You like him, don’t you?
She looked at her brother and, for once, didn’t deflect. — Yeah. I think I do.
He raised his eyebrows and let out a low whistle. — Well damn. London’s getting interesting.
They ended up ordering Thai from their favorite place down the street—a comforting habit she’d fallen back into every time she came to stay with him. The kind of routine that made her feel anchored, even if her life was anything but routine.
They ate while watching something dumb and easy—an old episode of MasterChef Australia, mostly for the dramatic narration and the wildly passionate amateur cooks. Her brother occasionally paused to mock the contestants, and she kept giving commentary like she was judging a film. It wasn’t glamorous, but it felt like breathing again.
At one point, he looked over at her, catching the small smile she didn’t even realize she was wearing.
— So, when are you gonna bring the Italian up here for dinner?
She gave him a withering look, then reached for a spring roll. — Oh my god, calm down. We’ve been on, like, two dates.
— I didn’t say marry him, I said feed him. Huge difference.
She laughed, her head falling back against the couch. — You’re the worst.
— I’m the best, — he said smugly, stretching out his legs and stealing the last dumpling. — You just don’t wanna admit I’m right.
She nudged him with her foot. — I don’t even know what this is yet.
— Whatever it is, — he said, more sincerely now, — you seem happy.
She didn’t respond right away, but her expression softened. — Yeah — she said quietly. — I think I am.
The next morning moved slowly. She was alone in her brother’s apartment, sunlight starting to pour in through the massive windows and hitting the hardwood floors in golden patches. The place was quiet, his style more minimal than hers, but still warm, lived-in. She liked how temporary it felt. No pressure to be in her usual persona here.
She had just finished her morning tea and was leaning against the kitchen island, dressed in soft linen pants and a fitted tank top, when her phone lit up.
Riccardo: Chapter two starts with coffee or chaos?
She smiled before she even finished reading it. Typical.
Riccardo: It’s my way of asking if I can see you again.
Her: Is “chaos” your way of asking if I’m free?
She didn’t answer immediately. She walked over to the window, coffee in hand, watching the early London haze slowly lift. Then, fingers flying:
Her: You already know where I am.
Another pause.
Riccardo: Guess I’ll take the elevator then.
Five minutes later, she heard the soft knock. She opened the door barefoot, her hair still slightly messy, face makeup-free and glowing from her skincare. Riccardo stood there with two iced coffees in hand and a faint smile pulling at his lips.
— I figured it was safer to bring both — he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.
— In case one of us needed extra caffeine?
— In case one of us chickened out — he said, glancing around. — Your brother’s not home?
She shook her head. — Meetings all day.
— Good — he said simply, setting the coffees on the counter. — I didn’t want to share you.
She let that sit between them for a beat too long, then breezed past it. — We’re not sharing coffee either. The vanilla one’s mine.
He raised his hands in mock surrender. — Wouldn’t dream of it.
They made their way to the small couch in the open-plan living room. She sat cross-legged, posture relaxed, while Riccardo dropped beside her with that casual, comfortable way of his—like the space was already familiar.
— Feels like we’ve done this a thousand times — she murmured.
— Maybe we just skipped ahead — he offered, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
She gave him a sideways look. — I wasn’t going to bring that up.
He smirked, leaning back against the cushions. — Then let’s pretend we never met.
— Impossible.
— Why?
— Because I still remember what you said in Milan — she said, gaze flicking toward him. — And I definitely remember what you did.
He let out a low laugh, then turned serious. — Okay, then maybe we don’t start from scratch. But we don’t rush this either.
She nodded. — No pressure.
They sat in companionable silence again. Her knee brushed against his. He didn’t move. Neither did she.
— Where are we going later? — she asked.
— I thought we’d drive out somewhere.
— You’re driving? — she teased, mock surprise in her tone.
He gave her a look. — I drove us last night.
She smiled behind her coffee. — Right. Just making sure it wasn’t a fluke.
He leaned in just slightly. — I drive. You’ll see.
She pretended to consider it. — Fine. As long as I get to control the playlist.
Riccardo tapped the lid of his cup. — Deal.
And just like that, the morning stretched with a subtle current of anticipation between them—unspoken, but understood. By the time she went to get ready, the mood had shifted—warmer, lighter. Riccardo stayed behind in the living room, scrolling on his phone while she moved into the guest room. She didn’t overthink the outfit, just throwing on a open striped button-down over what she was already wearing and putting on her sneakers, cool and a little undone.
When she came back, slipping her phone and a lip balm into her small shoulder bag, he opened the door for her like it was second nature. They walked down the hall side by side and took the elevator down together—quiet. Outside, the sky was clear. London was unusually generous today, all soft light and dry air.
When they stepped out into the lobby, she pulled her sunglasses from her bag and slipped them on, even though the spring sun wasn’t exactly blinding. He looked over, amused.
— Disguise? — he teased, unlocking the car with a quiet click.
— Habit — she said, sliding into the passenger seat. — And I’m wearing no makeup. Don’t make it weird.
He laughed under his breath, starting the engine. —You look good without it.
She glanced at him from beneath her frames, not smiling, but not not-smiling either.
— Flattery. Dangerous game.
— I’m not playing — he said. — Yet.
The tension in the car was different from the night before—less electric, more weighted. Like the shift had already happened, and they were both just carefully adjusting to the new energy between them. Not rushing. Not resisting it either.
As he drove, one hand steady on the wheel, she let herself turn slightly toward him. Her knee bumped gently against his leg, and she didn’t move it.
— You always drive? — she asked. — No driver, no blacked-out cars?
He glanced at her, smirking. — I like the quiet. And the control, I guess.
She made a soft sound, almost a hum. — Control. That tracks.
He arched a brow. — You don’t?
— I like being driven — she said, eyes still on the road ahead. — But I don’t mind giving directions.
Riccardo’s mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile too much at that. — Right. Very collaborative of you.
She shrugged. — I’m generous that way.
The corner of his hand brushed hers on the center console when he shifted gears, and neither of them pulled away. Just that brief graze of skin, a little spark lodged between two otherwise casual movements.
They drove a few more minutes like that, the air between them pulsing with all the things that didn’t need to be said yet. She reached for her phone to switch the song, scrolling until she found something mellow—Lauryn Hill humming through the speakers a second later, soft and golden like the light outside.
— Good choice — Riccardo said.
— I know. — She reclined back a little in the seat, glancing out the window again. — It’s a playlist I made for drives I don’t want to end.
That made him glance at her, for real this time. Something in his expression softened just a little too much, and he looked back at the road quickly, but not before she saw it.
Neither of them said anything after that. There was no need.
There was a beat of stillness between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then, she reached across the console and brushed a curl away from his forehead without thinking—soft, unhurried. Her fingers lingered at his temple for a moment too long before falling back to her lap.
He swallowed once, almost imperceptibly. — You keep doing that — he said under his breath.
She raised an eyebrow. — Doing what?
— Making it hard to think straight.
The light changed. He turned the wheel, a little tighter than necessary.
Her voice was light again when she replied. — Then maybe don’t think. Just drive.
He didn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth curved again. She looked back out the window, trying to hide the quiet satisfaction blooming across her face.
A few more minutes passed in silence—comfortable, suspended. The kind of silence only possible with someone you trust without realizing when it started.
— Are we almost there? — she asked after a while.
— Getting close — he said, and something about the way he said it made her pulse flicker. He wasn’t just talking about the location.
She shifted again, this time turning her head to look at him fully. — So where exactly are you taking me, Calafiori?
He gave her a sideways glance, slow and deliberate. — Getting impatient?
— I’m curious.
— You’ll like it — he said simply. — And no, I’m not telling you.
She leaned back in her seat, eyeing him with mock suspicion. — You don’t strike me as the type who likes planning dates.
— I’m not. Not usually.
— But you did this time.
He smiled without looking at her. — You didn’t seem like the kind of person who’d go for anything half-assed.
That made her lips twitch. — You’re right. I wouldn’t.
They fell into a gentle silence. The song shifted. Now it was Frank Ocean—Ivy—and her eyes lit up, just a little.
He caught it. — You love him, don’t you?
— I’m obsessed with him — she admitted. — Frank is like… a whole language.
— I feel like I missed that train — he said. — Everyone talks about Blonde like it changed their life.
— It did — she said, dead serious. — Mine, at least. It’s not an album, it’s an ache. You can’t listen to it and come out the same, I swear, I’d run into a fire for that album.
— I don’t think I’ve ever loved anything I’d run into a fire for — he said lightly.
She looked over at him, playful. — You don’t have a single album like that?
— Maybe a few FIFA soundtracks — he teased, then laughed. — No, I’m kidding. I like older stuff too. 80s rock. Some Italian classics. I like music that makes me feel like I’m somewhere else.
She nodded. — I like music that makes me feel like I’m exactly where I am.
The trees thinned out as the road straightened, curling past stone cottages and delicate fences covered in blooming wisteria. Morning light filtered through the branches overhead, the kind that made everything feel a little more cinematic. Riccardo slowed the car as they entered the village—quiet streets, soft hills in the distance, and a handful of people already out walking dogs or browsing shop windows.
She leaned forward slightly, watching it unfold through the windshield. — This is… not what I expected — she said quietly.
He glanced over at her, one hand still on the steering wheel. — Good or bad?
She smiled without looking at him. — Good. It’s peaceful.
— Yeah. I figured you get enough of everything else.
She nodded. — Let’s park and just walk around. Brunch will find us.
— Is that a spiritual belief?
She smirked. — Almost all of mine are.
He parked near the edge of a little square, where a café sat beneath a line of trees, already putting out tables. The air was cool and fresh, the kind of air that made everything feel slower. Lighter. They got out of the car without rushing, the kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled sitting easily between them. He locked the door with a soft beep, and without thinking, she looped her arm through his as they started down the street.
— You really don’t mind walking around aimlessly? — she asked, teasing.
— I think that’s the point — he replied, eyes straight ahead. — Just wandering.
She laughed, nudging him slightly with her shoulder. — You don’t seem like someone who wanders.
— No?
— No — she said, glancing up at him. — You seem very… deliberate.
He looked down at her. — I am. That’s why I’m here.
Her gaze lingered for a second, then she let it go, tugging him gently toward a narrow lane where vines climbed up brick walls and there were small shops with hand-painted signs. The kind of place that felt like time moved differently.
— You hungry? — he asked.
She looked at him like he was ridiculous. — You brought me all the way here and you’re just now asking that?
Riccardo grinned. — I wanted to give you a reason to complain. Seems like you enjoy it.
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling again.
They didn’t pick the place for any particular reason—it was just there, past a crooked brick building with sun-faded window panes and a little handwritten sign that read “brunch served all day.” There were potted herbs along the front steps and two mismatched chairs outside. It was charming in the sort of way you don’t even try to describe out loud. She slowed when they passed it, drawn by the smell more than anything.
— This one? — Riccardo asked, already turning toward the door.
— Yeah — she said, eyes scanning the menu chalked on the board out front. — Looks good enough.
He held the door open, the tiny bell above it chiming as they stepped inside. The place was small and old in the best way—wooden floors, mismatched chairs, and a counter with cakes under glass domes. A soft jazz record crackled somewhere behind the noise of the espresso machine. They took a table by the window without needing to ask, sun pouring in and lighting up the fine dust in the air. She slid her sunglasses off and rested them on the table, glancing out briefly before looking back at him.
— Good pick.
— I didn’t pick this — he said, leaning back in his chair. — You stopped walking.
— Right — she murmured, almost amused, and picked up the menu.
They ordered quickly, something warm and savory for both of them. When the server walked away, he watched her stretch slightly in her chair, tucking one leg underneath her and tilting her head, eyes lazily tracing the street outside. When their food arrived—steaming plates. She reached over to steal a bite from his plate without asking.
He blinked. — Seriously?
— You ordered better — she said, chewing slowly. —Get used to it.
His jaw tightened for a beat, like he was trying not to laugh. — I will literally never order first again.
— Smart.
He watched her for a moment, her fingers delicately adjusting her bracelet before she took a sip of her matcha latte. They didn’t rush. There was no need to. The morning had slipped comfortably into noon, the light warming to a golden tone that made everything outside look softer. The café had begun to fill, but their table by the window still felt like a world of its own.
She leaned back slightly, sipping her cup as if it might help her decide whether to speak or stay quiet. Riccardo watched her, elbow propped against the table, fingers loosely holding his fork. Not really eating anymore. Just watching.
— You always this quiet? — she asked suddenly, setting her cup down with a soft clink.
— Only when I’m paying attention — he said, shrugging one shoulder.
— To what?
He took a beat. — The way you eat exactly two bites of everything and then get bored.
She narrowed her eyes. — I do not.
He raised both eyebrows, then nodded toward her plate—barely touched. She glanced at it, then back at him with mock offense.
— I’m a sampler. It’s sophisticated — she said. — You should try it sometime.
Riccardo grinned. — I’m Italian. I finish my plate. It’s called respect.
She laughed, tilting her face toward the window like she was trying to hide it, even as the sound spilled freely. It came so naturally around him, that ease, like they’d already figured out the rhythm of each other without meaning to.
— You’re annoyingly charming, you know that? —she muttered.
— You’re the first person who’s ever said that.
She rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. — Liar.
Riccardo watched her like he was watching a scene unfold. Not performing, just observing.
— What? — she asked, meeting his eyes again.
He shook his head slightly, lips curving into something softer. — I’m just… glad you said yes.
She didn’t answer right away. Her gaze dropped, smile tucked into the corner of her mouth as she reached for her water.
— It’s a good day — she said finally. — I’m glad I said yes too.
They fell into conversation easily after that, somewhere between people-watching and letting themselves unwind. He talked about the pressure of moving to London, how different it felt from Italy, and she listened carefully. In turn, he asked her—quietly, without prying—if she ever felt tired of being known everywhere she went.
—Not tired — she said eventually. — But sometimes… I wish I could be a mystery again.
He studied her for a long moment before replying. — You still are — he said simply.
She blinked, then looked away with a soft smile, the kind that didn’t quite know where to land.
— Do you ever get tired of it? — she asked after a beat.
— What?
— The noise. The attention. All the… expectations?
Riccardo took a moment. — Sometimes. But I don’t think I’d trade it.
— No?
He shook his head. — You work so hard for something. And when you get it… there’s pressure, sure. But also—pride. You feel like the kid version of yourself would be proud.
Her gaze softened, and she nodded slowly, as if she knew exactly what he meant. — I think about legacy a lot — she said. — How I want to be remembered.
— You already will be — he said quietly.
She gave him a look that held both disbelief and something else—something unsaid. Then, in a lighter tone, she said — Okay. Let’s change the subject before I start quoting poetry or something.
He grinned. — I’d actually pay to see that.
— Of course you would — she muttered, biting back a smile.
Their plates were mostly cleared now, but neither of them moved. He reached out and gently pushed one of her rings back into place—it had shifted while she played with her napkin. The touch was brief, barely anything at all, but it made her still for a moment. When she looked at him again, there was something quieter in her eyes. Not uncertainty—just the weight of meaning, of having someone near who didn’t try to fill silence with noise.
— Where to now? — he asked eventually, voice low.
She leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers loosely laced. — You’re the one who drove. Shouldn’t I be asking you that?
Riccardo smirked. — You trust me that much already?
— Don’t make it weird — she said, standing up, her chair scraping gently against the floor. — Come on.
When they stepped back into the sunlight, the day felt wide open, like the kind of day that could stretch as long as they let it, and neither of them seemed in a hurry to get home. She slipped on her sunglasses, and Riccardo tucked his hands into his pockets. Their steps matched easily, unhurried.
He glanced over at her as they turned a corner, where the street dipped slightly. There were storefronts with iron-framed windows and peeling paint—bakeries, second-hand bookstores, a florist with buckets spilling blooms onto the sidewalk. The breeze lifted a lock of her hair, and she tucked it behind her ear without thinking.
— Wait — she said suddenly, stopping mid-step.
He followed her gaze.
There it was. A record shop—small and narrow, tucked between a frame store and a dusty old tailor. Its window was cluttered with vinyls, posters, and a little turntable turning lazily, like it had been waiting for them.
— You wanna…? — she asked, already stepping toward it.
— I mean, we kind of have to now — he said, grinning.
A little brass bell jingled as they stepped inside. The air changed immediately—cooler, quieter, infused with that perfect, musty warmth of worn cardboard sleeves and old wood. Jazz played softly in the background. The walls were covered in shelves stacked with vinyls like a library of lives.
She lit up.
— I’m going to lose all my money in here. — she murmured, trailing her fingers along the spine of a crate.
Riccardo watched her like she was part of the display—delicate, reverent, glowing with the kind of joy that was rare and unfiltered.
— Is it weird that I feel like I’m in your version of church? — he asked.
She laughed. — It kind of is.
— I want to see your collection one day — he said, more quietly now.
She glanced at him, then knelt to flip through a crate labeled ‘soul & r&b classics.’
— You will — she said casually, but it was a promise tucked into her voice.
He moved beside her, picking up a record at random. — What’s the test? — he asked.
— What do you mean?
— The vinyl test. Like… what makes one worth taking home?
She smiled without looking up. — It has to feel like it would soundtrack a moment I haven't lived yet.
He blinked, surprised by the answer. — That’s… — He paused. — That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard about a record.
She finally looked up at him, a teasing smile playing at her lips. — That’s because you’ve never heard White Ferrari on vinyl after midnight.
— Maybe it is.
They lingered like that, side by side, flipping through decades of sound, their shoulders brushing occasionally, their conversation slowing. Everything else outside the shop faded into quiet.
— Okay — he said, turning to look at her. — Tell me your most prized vinyl. Don’t think—just say it.
She didn’t hesitate. — Songs in the Key of Life. Stevie Wonder.
— Classic.
— It’s the heart of the collection — she said seriously. — I treat it like a living thing.
He was flipping through a crate labeled "Miscellaneous – Imports & Rare Pressings” when she let out a soft gasp. Not dramatic, but enough to make him look up.
She was holding something gently, like it was a secret: The Stranger by Billy Joel.
— Oh wow — he said, stepping closer. — That’s the one?
She nodded slowly, her thumb brushing the worn edge of the sleeve. — One of my favorites at home. But this — she turned it slightly, — this is a European pressing. I’ve only seen it once before, and it wasn’t in good condition. This one’s… pristine.
Riccardo studied her expression—wide-eyed, reverent. The way she looked at that record, it was like it held something holy.
— You should get it. This one’s part of this moment now. You can’t not take it home.
She looked at him, the corner of her mouth lifting slowly, like she couldn’t help it.
— Fine — she said. — But only if we listen to it together.
He smiled, soft and certain. — Deal.
As she brought it to the counter, he wandered a few steps behind, half-looking through the r&b section when another sleeve caught his eye. He picked it up slowly, curious—and then grinned.
When she turned from the counter, bag in hand, he held up the record he’d found: Blonde.
Her heart skipped without warning. — My favorite — she murmured.
— I know — He held her gaze. — That’s why I’m getting it. Maybe now I'll know how hearing White Ferrari on vinyl after midnight feels like.
They stepped back into the street, paper sleeves tucked under their arms. The light had shifted again—late afternoon now, golden and slow. Neither of them said anything for a few beats. Then she murmured, without looking at him:
— I thought that I was dreaming when you said you loved me.
Riccardo looked at her, smiling faintly. — You really do soundtrack your life.
She just hummed. — Doesn’t everybody?
But the truth was—only some people did. The kind of people who felt everything, deeply and quietly. Who saw meaning everywhere, and weren’t afraid to call it beautiful. And he was starting to realize she was one of them.
— You know — Riccardo said, after they turned the corner — I think you might be the most interesting person I’ve ever met.
— That sounds like a line.
— It’s not. I mean it.
— Then you need to meet more people.
He laughed, but she reached out—just briefly—and tugged at his jacket, like she was teasing and anchoring him at once. — But thank you.
The sun was dipping lower now. A few lights flickered on in cafés and bookstores. Their city stroll felt like something stolen from a Sunday afternoon—unhurried, unplanned, golden.
— I still can’t believe we found that vinyl —she said, gesturing to the bag.
— I thought you were going to cry in the store.
— I almost did — she admitted with a dramatic sigh. — It’s like it was waiting for me. That’s fate.
— I thought you didn’t believe in fate.
— I don’t — she replied, lips curving. — But I do believe in divine timing… and excellent curation.
He grinned. — You speak like a woman who has very expensive taste.
— I speak like a woman who knows what she wants.
Riccardo raised an eyebrow. — Is that a warning?
— A promise.
That made him chuckle, deep and low, as they rounded the corner toward the small parking lot. His car sat there gleaming, casually parked like it belonged in a film still.
— So — she asked as they approached, — was this part of your grand seduction plan? Lure me with carbs and then take me to hunt vinyls like it’s nothing?
— Would it work if it was?
She tilted her head, pausing right before he opened the door for her.
— I think it might’ve.
He held her gaze for a second longer than necessary, then reached for the handle and opened it.
— Get in before I kiss you right here in the street.
She blinked—just once—and slid in with a composed, amused smile, as if her heart hadn’t skipped a full beat. He closed the door behind her with a soft thud.
As he rounded the front of the car, she watched him through the windshield. Her reflection stared back faintly in the glass—messy hair, flushed cheeks, something quietly alight in her eyes. As they pull out of the quiet town and into the winding countryside roads, she rests her head lightly against the window, watching trees blur by. — Don’t let me fall asleep, — she murmurs.
He glances at her, eyes crinkling at the corners. — If you do, I’ll let you. But I’m stealing one of your records.
She groans. — You're lucky I like you.
— I know.
They drive back in a silence that's not really silent at all—filled with the quiet rhythm of tires on the road, soft music, and the unspoken ease that’s settled between them like it’s been there for years.
— You okay? — he asks, watching her.
She nods slowly. — Yeah. Just… kind of wishing we didn’t have to go back yet.
— Then we’ll stay a little longer next time — he replies simply, like it’s not even a question.
She looks at him, surprised at how easily he says it. Like he’s already decided there will be a next time.
— Are you hungry again? — he asked suddenly.
She looked at him. — Always.
— Good — he said. — I know a place.
The pizzeria was tucked between two quiet streets in London—tiny, candlelit, with handwritten menus and the smell of baked cheese spilling out the door. Riccardo opened it for her with a flourish.
— After you — he said.
She stepped in, nose already in the air. — If this place is terrible, I’m blaming your taste in pizza and Frank Ocean.
He grinned. — No pressure.
They slid into a small booth by the window, the city glowing outside like a film set. The waiter barely handed them menus before she pointed to something.
— Pesto sourdough focaccia. That’s what we’re getting. And olives. And maybe this spicy little something here.
The waiter returned, took their order, and left them bathed in the warm clink and hum of the place. Someone in the back was playing a mellow rock record that sounded warped and perfect.
— You really have a superpower for finding romantic little corners — she said.
— I just roam the city and hope something good happens.
— And here I was thinking it was part of some elaborate master plan.
Riccardo leaned in, mock-conspiratorial. — It is. I’m trying to impress a certain woman with impeccable taste and intimidating musical knowledge.
She raised an eyebrow. — Sounds like a nightmare.
— She’s terrifying.
— Stunning, though.
He nodded. — And possibly a witch.
She let out a laugh—loud, real, unguarded.
— I am a little witchy — she admitted. — You should see me during Mercury retrograde.
— Noted. I’ll wear protection.
She mimed casting a spell across the table. — Too late. You’ve been charmed.
He didn’t say anything to that—just gave her a look that was half amusement, half something heavier.
Their food arrived then, hot and golden, and they broke off pieces of focaccia like they’d done this a hundred times before. She stole one of the spicy olives from his plate without asking. He let her.
— So — he said, mouth full, — what would teenage-you say about your life right now?
She paused, chewing. — Probably: what the hell is happening and why are you dating football players instead of fictional poets?
He laughed again, then shook his head. — Teenage-me would definitely think I peaked.
She tilted her head, genuinely curious. — You think you peaked?
He shrugged, grinning. — Nah. But he would. He thought being 25 meant marriage and a villa by the sea, he would thrive knowing that we're on FIFA”
— Don't you want a villa by the sea?
— I’d rather have someone who sings along badly to the vinyls we bought earlier.
That made her look down, smiling into her drink.
And just like that, the air changed—not heavier, but warmer. Comfortable. Familiar in a way that snuck up on them both. It’s easy, the way the conversation flows. The jokes. The rhythm. There’s a comfort that surprises both of them, like they skipped a few steps somewhere and landed in that golden space where nothing has to be earned.
After a quiet beat, he looks at her. — You know what I was thinking earlier?
— What?
— That this didn’t feel like a first day hanging out. Not really.
She tilts her head, amused. — What does it feel like then?
He shrugs, eyes never leaving hers. — Like something we’ve done before. Like I already knew what your laugh sounded like before I heard it.
She doesn't answer right away. Her fingers toy lightly with the stem of her glass. Then, softly, — That’s the kind of thing you say when you want to ruin a girl’s life.
He laughs, leaning back, — So dramatic.
— You’ve met me — she says, raising her brows.
— Yeah — he says. — And I still said it.
The food keeps coming. They keep talking. By the time they leave, her stomach hurts from laughing, and her cheeks are warm from wine. As they step out into the cool London air, he pulls his jacket off without a word and drapes it over her shoulders.
She doesn’t protest. Just slips her arms into the sleeves and says, quietly, — Thank you.
They stepped into the building side by side, the doors sliding shut behind them with a soft swoosh. It was quiet in the lobby, save for the soft echo of their footsteps across the marble. Riccardo hit the elevator button and glanced at her, one hand still tucked in his pocket, the other brushing back his hair.
– You’ve walked more in one day than most people do in a week – he teased, voice low and amused. – I’m impressed.
She shot him a grin, the corners of her mouth curving with mischief. – You act like I’m not a trained dancer. I could go another ten miles if you asked.
– Tempting – he said, half under his breath.
The elevator doors slid open and they stepped inside. It was just the two of them. Again. She leaned casually against the mirrored wall, watching him through her lashes.
– You’re quiet all of a sudden – she said, tilting her head slightly. – Running out of clever lines?
He smirked, eyes flicking to hers. – Just trying not to say something I’ll regret.
– Like what?
The elevator hummed as it began its ascent.
– I don’t know… Like suggesting we skip tomorrow’s plans and do this again instead.
She arched an eyebrow. – You think I’d say no to that?
He looked at her then, fully, and she felt it—an unspoken thing charging the air.
The elevator dinged. Her floor. She stepped out slowly, turning halfway to face him as he remained inside.
– Goodnight, Riccardo – she said, still smiling. – Thanks for the walking tour.
– Anytime – he replied, eyes not leaving her. – Sleep well.
She waited until the doors began to close, then called out, – Try not to miss me.
He huffed a soft laugh as the metal slid shut.
She stepped inside, shrugging off her coat as the door clicked shut behind her. The lights in the living room were warm and soft, casting that cozy late-night glow over the apartment she’d grown to find comforting in the past weeks.
– Finally – her brother called from the kitchen, half-amused. – I thought you got recruited into a cult or something.
She rolled her eyes, dropping her bag by the couch. – I just went out, not on a pilgrimage.
He leaned against the counter with a drink in hand, his expression smug. – Out, huh? That what we’re calling it now?
She smirked, walking toward him. – Yes. Out. As in brunch. Records. A little roaming around.
He handed her a glass of water, eyeing her knowingly. – Brunch that turned into dusk. Sounds promising.
She took a sip, letting the glass linger at her lips. – You’re annoying.
– And you’re glowing – he nudged her shoulder. – So. Calafiori.
She tried not to smile, but her eyes gave her away. – He’s sweet. He’s… fun.
Her brother raised his brows. – Fun? That’s a new one.
She laughed softly. – He’s nice, okay? And surprisingly thoughtful.
– And hot. Don’t forget hot.
– Jesus – she muttered, smiling into her cup.
Her brother gave a knowing nod. – Yeah, you’ve needed someone like that.
She nudged him with her shoulder. – Don’t get soft on me.
– I’m not – he said, though his tone was gentle. – I’m just saying. If you like him, I hope he’s smart enough to like you back the right way.
She was quiet for a moment, then said, – It’s nothing serious.
– Yet – he added casually.
She shook her head, laughing softly. – Stop. We’re just hanging out.
– You literally came home high on music and holding a baguette.
– It’s focaccia.
– Even worse. That’s wife behavior.
She groaned, hiding her smile behind her glass. – You’re impossible.
– Just doing my brotherly duties.
They stood in companionable silence for a second before he added, a little more softly, – You know you can stay here as long as you need, right?
She nodded, her expression sincere. – I know.
He looked at her, something fond in his expression. – Good. Because you’re terrible at picking up your clothes from the bathroom, and I need to mentally prepare if you’re extending your stay.
– Shut up – she said, laughing again, and bumped his arm.
discoholicmusic
turnnoffyourmind
dededos
baratheonpilled
prguitarman
blakekathryn
