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O ur next stop is the Basilica di San Clemente, or to quote Giulio – ‘a slice of the best historical lasagna in Rome’.

He’s not joking.

We descend from a twelfth-century church to a fourth-century basilica below, then down again into an ancient Roman house and temple. Actual layers of history sitting one on top of the other.

Back on the Vespa, we whizz past crowded buses and trams and, though it feels like someone’s blowing a hairdryer in my face, it’s hands-down the best way to get around the city and is worth more than its vintage charm and the price tag Bertolli has put on it. It is pure freedom.

But there’s no getting away from the blistering sun and the press of people when we park the Vespa and step into a piazza dominated by the massive dome of the Pantheon.

A dozen different languages buzz in my ear, and I realize July has slipped into August – the absolute worst month to go near any of the big sights.

Sensing my panic at the wall of tourists ahead, Giulio reaches for my hand, pausing to check he isn’t touching my fading burn. ‘Stay close, OK?’

Swit swoo! Inner Isla catcalls in my ear as the low rumble of his voice makes me jump inside.

The thrum of my heart pulses in my fingertips and I wonder if Giulio can feel it too.

Relief floods through me as he steers us away from the crowds funnelling into the Pantheon, and down a narrow side street into an unexpected pocket of calm.

‘It’s not the Pantheon.’ He pulls me inside a much smaller, tucked-away church. ‘But it has a pretty impressive dome of its own.’

Intrigued, I tilt my head back, taking in the striking fresco curving high overhead, a masterpiece of angels and saints rising into a dramatic sky.

My attention’s only half on it though..

.that hand, still lightly holding mine, is distracting.

When he lets go to turn in a full circle, his eyes never leaving the ceiling, my relief is almost immediate, as if his touch had been sapping my focus.

Although, honestly, there’s a smidge of disappointment there too.

‘See it yet?’ he asks.

I squint up at the fresco, trying to figure out what ‘it’ is.

Giulio steps closer, and points to a spot above us. ‘Look at the edges, see how the lines don’t quite meet? That’s how you can tell it’s flat.’

I see it. The borders of the fresco blur, not quite connecting like they should. ‘Oh,’ I breathe, as the illusion falls away. He’s right. The ceiling is flat, but the painting tricks the eye, making it seem like it’s arching above us.

I sneak a look at Giulio and, not for the first time today, I feel like I’m seeing him in an unexpected way too. I give myself a mental kick. Giulio’s just a stand-in.

‘Thanks for showing me another of Nina’s finds,’ I say, more as a reminder to myself.

‘Actually, this is one of my mum’s favourite spots.’ He pauses, kneading the heel of one hand into his shoulder as if he’s loosening some tension. ‘My dad never came, though.’

‘Too busy driving lorries?’

‘Yeah...it gets him away from Rome. He only moved here for my mum. Says everything’s better in Milan – cleaner streets, trams are on time, blah, blah, blah.’

I snort. ‘It’s like my parents...they choose to live in Edinburgh but still complain non-stop about the weather...and the food. Ommioddio. Always the food.’

Giulio laughs. ‘My dad says it’s impossible to find a decent cotoletta alla Milanese in this city.’

‘Isn’t that just veal in breadcrumbs?’

‘ Sì , but apparently it doesn’t taste the same here . . .’ He circles his hand around. ‘The air . . . it’s different.’

‘Bet he moans about the coffee too, then.’

‘The water changes the taste!’ Giulio and I say at the same time, laughing in surprise at our shared thought, eyes meeting in mutual understanding.

The silence between us as we walk back to the Vespa is a comfortable one.

We’ve only ever talked about the bar, or Nina.

And maybe that’s why today feels different.

I’ve seen the real Rome from unexpected angles, and now I’m seeing him in a new way too – Giulio, who has his own family complications, his own stuff to deal with that doesn’t involve Nina or the problems waiting for us at the bar.

By the time we head back, my footsteps land more heavily on the ground, like I belong here a little more. For the first time since arriving in Rome, I feel like less of a tourist – even though I’ve spent all afternoon visiting the sights.