Page 25 of The Road to You

LENA

I don’t think I’ve ever been this quiet in my life. Not on purpose, anyway.

I’m standing at the edge of the Belvedere , the wind ruffling my hair, staring at the carved-out honey-colored cliffs in front of me as if I’ve accidentally stepped into the pages of a fantasy novel.

The ancient dwellings rise in layers, stacked one above the other like some magical creature took a chisel to the hillside and carved an entire city from stone.

The warm light of the late afternoon paints the rooftops in amber, and the shadows stretch long in the crevices of the old streets.

“I…” My mouth opens and closes. “I don’t even know how this is real.”

Michele chuckles beside me, amused. “It’s real. Very real. That’s Matera. Or more precisely, I Sassi di Matera. ”

“The Sassi,” I repeat, the word soft and strange in my mouth. “Like…the stones?”

“Exactly. They’re ancient cave dwellings. People have lived here for thousands of years. They say it’s one of the oldest continuously inhabited settlements in the world.”

I blink at him, then look back at the view, my brain struggling to connect the dots between something this old and the world I come from, where everything gets knocked down and rebuilt every ten years.

“And people actually lived in those ? In the rocks?”

“Still do, in a way. Many of the Sassi have been restored. Some are houses, others are restaurants or hotels now. However, people did live in those caves, generation after generation. Whole families. With their animals, their tools, everything. Until the 1950s, when the government forced evacuations because of poor sanitation and poverty.”

“That’s…insane. And beautiful. And kind of heartbreaking,” I murmur, squinting at the twisting, narrow alleys between the stone homes. “It looks like it belongs in Narnia. Or… Game of Thrones. Did they film here?”

“They did, actually,” he says with a crooked smile. “Not Games of Thrones , but The Passion of the Christ . Matera has doubled as ancient Jerusalem more than once.”

I let out a breathy laugh, still stunned. “I can see why.”

I step closer to the railing, bracing my hands against the warm iron. “How does this even exist? Why don’t people talk about this more?”

“They do,” he says gently. “Just not in LA.”

That earns him a side-eye glare. “Touché.”

But when I glance at him, he’s not laughing. He’s watching me.

His expression is soft, almost reverent, like I’m the marvel here and not the ancient stone city unfolding before us.

His dark hair curls slightly in the breeze, and there’s a hint of sun still lingering on his cheekbones, lighting up the specks of gold in his eyes.

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me like I’ve given him something. Like my wonder is something sacred.

And that’s when I feel the little flip in my chest. The one that doesn’t just flutter but settles, warm and deep.

“You’re staring, Moretti,” I tease, trying to lighten the moment before it gets heavy enough to change everything.

“I like watching you fall in love with Italy,” he says simply.

Oh.

I turn quickly, pretending to examine a rock nearby like it’s the most fascinating geological feature in the world, because if I keep looking at him, I might say something dumb. Or honest. Or both.

We start walking down toward the old part of the city, winding through dusty steps and uneven cobblestones.

The buildings are built right into the mountain, with stone archway doors and stone window sills.

Even the air feels like it’s tinged with the memory of centuries.

It’s like the walls are still holding secrets of past lives.

I keep touching things. The stone walls, the low wooden doors, the plants and flowers growing straight out of the cracks in the walls and roofs. It feels almost forbidden to be here, like I’ve trespassed into a storybook.

“I swear,” I whisper, “this place has put a spell on me.”

Michele grins. “It kind of does. The Sassi were abandoned for years. People thought they were a shameful symbol of poverty. But then they started being restored, repurposed. Now they’re a UNESCO World Heritage Site.”

“So they came back to life.”

He glances at me, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Yeah. Exactly.”

We stop in front of an old stone archway leading to a shaded alley. The temperature drops slightly, the air cool and damp as if the stones themselves breathe. I run my fingers along the wall, feeling the grooves time has etched into it.

“It’s insane to think people slept here,” I say quietly. “Like…real people, with lives, and stories. They cooked dinner and laughed and cried and grew old inside this rock.”

Michele nods. “Sometimes, entire extended families shared one dwelling. There were no proper bathrooms, no ventilation. Kids and animals lived together. But they also had a strong sense of community. They lived close to the land. To each other.”

I glance at him. “You know a lot about this.”

He shrugs, one shoulder lifting. “I like history. Especially places that have seen everything and survived.”

I let that sit for a second.

“Do people still live in the Sassi?” I ask after a pause.

“Some, yes. A few locals moved back. But they’re mostly tourist spots now. You can even sleep in one.”

“Wait! We can sleep in one?”

His eyes twinkle. “If you want. I can see if there’s a hotel with a room open. Some of them are really beautiful. All restored inside. Still part of the rock, but with modern comforts.”

My heart skips a little. Not because of the novelty of staying inside a cave, but because of the way he looks at me while he suggests it, like he would do anything to make me happy .

I nod slowly. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Michele smiles, and it’s that smile again, the soft one that makes my chest ache in a way I don’t entirely understand.

I want to hold onto this moment, bottle it up.

The stone city glowing under the fading sun, the smell of old earth and rosemary in the air, and Michele beside me, looking like he belongs to this place in a way I never could, but somehow still makes me feel like I belong too.

We walk on, slowly, our footsteps echoing off the old walls. The silence between us now is the good kind that doesn’t need to be filled with shallow chatter.

Maybe some places are meant to be rediscovered.

And maybe some people are too.

By the time we step into the fourth hotel carved into the cliffs of the Sassi, my feet are beginning to protest. The air is cooler down here in the winding alleys, shaded by the way the old stone buildings stack over one another, but it’s still August. Still southern Italy. Still a hundred degrees and climbing.

“I’m starting to think we should’ve booked ahead,” I mutter, wiping the sweat from my neck with the back of my hand as we step inside the arched entrance.

Michele smiles faintly, though there’s a sheen of heat on his forehead too. “Where’s the fun in that?”

The lobby is small and intimate. More like someone’s living room than a hotel reception. Worn terracotta tiles, low-beamed ceilings, and an old wooden desk where a woman with silver-streaked hair greets us with a warm, knowing smile.

“ Buongiorno ,” she says cheerfully. “You’re lucky, you know. Everyone’s booked, but I’ve just had a cancellation.”

Michele’s brows lift. “Really?”

She nods. “Our best room. The honeymoon suite. Very romantic.” Her eyes twinkle between us. “It’s perfect for a couple.”

I feel my face flush. A pulse of something I don’t have a name for ripples through me.

Michele glances down at me with a small, silent question in his eyes. Do we correct her? Do we keep going? Do we share a bed?

And I don’t hesitate.

I give him a grin and nod, maybe a little too enthusiastically. “Sounds perfect.”

The woman gives us the key and points us toward a narrow stone stairwell that leads down into the earth, where the cool, damp air kisses my skin the deeper we go. We’re quiet as we descend, but my mind isn’t. It’s racing, with the echo of her words, with the realization of what I just agreed to.

Michele breaks the silence as we near the end of the hallway. “Just to be clear…we’re adults, right?”

I glance at him, smirking. “Painfully.”

“So sharing a bed doesn’t mean anything unless we want it to.”

I laugh softly. “Are you trying to reassure me or yourself?”

He gives me a half-smile. “Bit of both.”

I stop in front of the room and tilt my head toward him. “We’ll be fine. We can keep our hands to ourselves.”

But even as I say it, I’m not entirely sure I believe it. The key slips into the old brass lock with a soft click, and we step inside. Then we both go silent.

The room is bathed in warm light from sconces nestled into the rock walls.

It’s like walking into a dream, or maybe the heart of the earth itself.

The bed stands in the center, cast iron, elegant, and just wide enough to make my thoughts wildly inappropriate.

The back wall is the real cave, honey-colored and textured, like the surface of the moon or a piece of Swiss cheese, pocked with small holes and deep indentations.

It’s breathtaking. Ancient and intimate all at once.

There are no doors. Instead, curved walls carve out a sitting area, a bathroom, and a bedroom space, each tucked into the natural shape of the cave.

The shower is in the middle of the bathroom, made of glass on three sides, with the fourth built right into the rock.

Above it, the vaulted ceiling dips low, giving the whole thing a secret, forbidden feel.

Michele lets out a low whistle behind me. “ Porca vacca. ”

I blink slowly, still staring. “Okay…yeah. We’re definitely not giggly teenagers, but this room is straight out of a sex dream.”