Page 20 of The Road to You

I know what he means, that he doesn’t hate it, because since coming here, I’ve discovered part of myself that I didn’t know existed in the frenetic chaos of my life.

Things that you have to slow down to savor, such as taking your time to go to the grocery store and think about what you want to eat based on what you find, rather than rushing through the shelves and grabbing the first thing you see.

It sounds stupid and insignificant until you find yourself anticipating a meal because you notice the ingredient you didn’t even know you were craving. I’ve learned to listen to my body more, and this is reflecting on my mental health too.

I reach for another bite of my maritozzo , flashing him a grin. “So, Moretti…what’s the plan for today? More sightseeing? More attempts to seduce me with food?”

He smirks. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” His usual playfulness hits me full force.

I laugh, and just like that, the morning feels even lighter. This moment, this slow, easy peace, it’s something I never knew I needed. And something I might not be ready to let go of.

The air smells like summer, with its warm earth, sun-drenched leaves, and the faintest hint of blooming flowers drifting through the breeze.

Villa Borghese stretches before us like an oasis of green in the middle of Rome, with wide gravel paths winding through towering cypress trees and ancient statues peeking out between the hedges.

There’s a quiet hum of life here, birds chirping in the branches, the distant laughter of children, the occasional swish of a bicycle rolling past.

I take a deep breath, letting the tranquility settle in my bones. Rome is full of breathtaking places, but this feels like a hidden pocket of magic.

Michele walks beside me, hands tucked into the pockets of his navy shorts, his steps lazy and unhurried.

The morning light catches in his dark hair, giving it a golden sheen, and I find myself glancing at him more often than necessary.

He looks…relaxed. Like he belongs here, like this version of him, carefree and unburdened, is who he was always meant to be.

“How is it that you’re Italian, and yet I’m the one who suggested Villa Borghese?” I tease, bumping my shoulder lightly against his.

Michele smirks, tilting his head toward me. “Because I don’t usually play tourist in my own country. But I have to admit, it’s not a bad suggestion.”

I feign shock. “Is that a compliment?” My stomach flips in response.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” he quips. “It’s already big enough.”

I gasp in mock offense, placing a hand over my chest. “Rude.”

He chuckles, the sound warm and deep, and I can’t help but smile. I want to record that laugh and bring it with me. I would listen to it every time I’m sad.

We continue strolling, the gravel crunching beneath our feet, the sun filtering through the trees in golden patches.

I glance around, soaking it all in: the Renaissance fountains, the grand sculptures that seem frozen mid-motion, the endless greenery stretching before us like something out of a painting.

And then, out of nowhere, I feel his fingers brush against mine. It’s the lightest touch, almost accidental, but then, without hesitation, without even looking down, he links our fingers together. My breath catches in my throat.

I glance at him, my pulse stuttering, and my breath hitching just slightly.

He doesn’t seem to notice what he’s done.

Or maybe he does, and he just doesn’t care.

His grip is easy, casual, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to be holding my hand.

It feels so natural that the thought throws me off.

I don’t pull away. Instead, I let my fingers settle into his, warm and firm and steady, and something in my chest flutters wildly at the intimacy of it.

I will never get used to it, but we’re just holding hands, for Pete’s sake.

It’s not like I’m fourteen with my first crush, even if it feels exactly like that.

“Lena.”

His voice is teasing, and I blink up at him, realizing I’ve been staring at our joined hands instead of watching where I’m going. I feel my cheeks heat up, and not because of the sun.

“Sorry,” I mutter, forcing my gaze forward.

“You’re getting all flustered,” he teases, but there is something else in his tone. Something that sounds a lot like an unspoken question.

“I am not.” I blush even harder.

“You so are.” His smile threatens to split his face in two, it’s so wide.

“Shut up,” I huff, but my lips twitch, betraying me. I’m totally getting sentimental over holding hands, but I can’t admit that, not even to Michele, because it would mean admitting there is something stirring in my chest that I should nip in the bud before we go way too far.

Michele grins but says nothing else, just keeps walking, his fingers still wrapped around mine, like we’ve done this a hundred times before. It feels like we have done it hundreds of times before.

We wander deeper into the park, past clusters of people lounging, past a pair of kids playing with plastic swords. It feels like we’ve stepped out of reality and into some golden, slow-moving dream where nothing exists but the two of us.

“Did you know Villa Borghese was once a vineyard?” Michele says, glancing at me.

I arch a brow. “Are you about to drop some Moretti-approved historical knowledge on me?”

I love it when he talks nerdy to me.

He smirks. “I might.”

“Okay, professor. Hit me with it.”

He squeezes my hand lightly, and that simple gesture, playful, easy, and intimate, sends a thrill down my spine.

“This whole park used to belong to the Borghese family,” he explains.

“They built it in the seventeenth century as a private retreat with fountains, sculptures, and even their own little zoo. Obviously, they also had a vineyard, like most rich people during that era. Eventually, they lost it, and the city took over.”

“Huh.” I glance around, taking in the grandeur. “Rich people really do love their extravagant backyard projects.” I’m glad it’s not just a Hollywood thing.

“Oh, absolutely.” He grins. “You should see the inside of the Borghese Gallery. Paintings, statues, marble everywhere. It’s ridiculous.” He’s so excited about this that I feel like there’s more behind his passion for historical facts.

I hum thoughtfully. “And here you are, impressing me with your knowledge of the place. Are you secretly a history nerd?”

He scoffs. “Please. I just had an Italian education, which means I had this stuff drilled into my head whether I wanted it or not.”

I feel he’s downplaying it. Nobody knows so many facts about a topic unless they’re deeply interested in it, even if they are forced to study it in school.

“Right.” I nod teasingly. “So you’re just a reluctant history geek?”

“Exactly.” He grins, but I can see in his eyes that he’s just messing with me.

“You are not fooling me, Moretti. You like history.” I playfully bump my shoulder against his.

“Damn! I chose the smart girl, didn’t I?” He raises a questioning eyebrow at me.

I shrug. “I’ve just learned to read people, and you are definitely a history geek.”

He chuckles, but he doesn’t deny it. He seems almost shy about it, and it’s a reaction that surprises me. I’ve never seen him embarrassed about anything, and I feel honored that he shared this vulnerable side with me.

I’m so absorbed looking at Michele that I don’t realize we’ve reached the lake, and I stop in my tracks, my breath catching.

The water is still and glassy, reflecting the perfect blue of the sky.

Ducks drift lazily across the surface, while weeping willows dip their branches into the ripples.

And there, standing like something out of a myth, is the Temple of Aesculapius—a pale, elegant structure with towering columns, its reflection shimmering in the lake like a mirage.

“Wow.” I exhale. “This is…”

Michele smirks. “You’re running out of words, Hollywood. ”

I elbow him lightly. “Shut up. I’m having a moment.”

He laughs, then tilts his head toward a small wooden dock where a handful of rowboats are tied up. “Come on. Let’s take one.”

I raise a brow. “You’re volunteering to do manual labor?”

“I am very strong, you know.” He flexes his pecs under the T-shirt and I have a hard time not drooling over him.

I snort. “Is that so?”

“You’ve seen my arms,” he says, completely deadpan. “You tell me.”

I roll my eyes but let him lead me toward the boats.

A few minutes later, we’re drifting across the lake.

The gentle lap of water against wood is the only sound around us.

Michele rows effortlessly, his movements steady, powerful, and I try very hard not to stare at the way his forearms flex with each stroke.

He catches me looking and smirks.

I scowl. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Enjoying what?”

“Showing off.”

He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make my pulse stutter. “You think I’m showing off?”

I purse my lips. “I know you are.”

His grin is pure mischief. “Well, at least I have an audience who appreciates it.”

I shake my head, laughing, and lean back against the wooden bench, letting the moment wrap around me like a warm breeze. It’s perfect. Stupidly, ridiculously perfect. And way more romantic than I anticipated.

I glance at Michele, at the way the sunlight glows against his tanned skin, the easy way he watches me, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. And the strangest thing is, I believe it.

It feels like a date.

He hasn’t said it. I haven’t said it. But it feels like one. And I’m excited and terrified all at once.