Lila inhaled slowly as she walked down Via del Corso, her footsteps quiet against the cobblestones. The city was waking gently around her: shutters opening, the low hum of scooters, the scent of roasted espresso drifting out from early cafés.
And yet her heart wouldn't slow.
She rehearsed explanations in her head like lines in a play she hadn't auditioned for. She needed something believable, something normal, something that didn't include fainting, hospitals, or the word malignancy.
You could say you got food poisoning.
Except he'd worry. And ask questions.
Or that you mixed up the days.
Except she knew he'd see through that instantly.
Or maybe you lost track of time?
No—she respected him too much to offer something that flimsy.
She turned a corner, clutching her sketchbook against her chest.
What she finally settled on—the only story that felt remotely plausible—was this:
She wasn't feeling well and slept through her alarms.
Technically true. Just missing… several monumental details.
"He'll understand," she whispered to herself, though her stomach twisted. "He has to."
But the truth was simpler: she didn't want to disappoint him. And she didn't want to lose the thread of something that had begun to feel like light.
The café came into view, its warm brick façade and tiny window boxes overflowing with trailing green leaves. Her pulse jumped.
What if he didn't come today?
What if the past few days had shifted something she couldn't fix?
She pushed the door open.
Inside, the familiar warmth wrapped around her instantly—the low hum of conversation, the clinking of cups, the smell of cinnamon. She scanned the room quickly, breath lodged in her throat.
Their table—by the window—was empty.
A quiet ache bloomed in her chest.
The same waiter from their previous meetings, Matteo, noticed her and walked over with a gentle smile. "Ah, buongiorno, Signorina."
"Hi," she said quietly. "Um… was someone here earlier? A man—tall, usually in a black coat, dark hair—"
"Yes," Matteo said with a knowing nod. "Signor Vale."
Her heart jumped.
"He just left. About five minutes ago. Took his coffee to go."
Lila exhaled sharply. "Thank you."
"Of course," he said, stepping aside. "You can catch him if you hurry."
She didn't think—she just ran.
Out the door, onto the street, weaving between tourists and locals with a speed her body probably shouldn't allow. One hand held her sketchbook tight against her chest, the other pushing her hair from her face. Her lungs burned, but she kept going.
She spotted him half a block ahead.
Asher walked with his usual easy stride, coffee cup in hand, the morning sun outlining him in gold. He paused briefly at a storefront, checking his watch.
"Asher!" she called, breathless.
He stiffened, turned—
—and surprise lit his features. Followed by something warmer. And something else… something careful.
"Lila?" he said, taking a step toward her. "Are you—are you okay?"
She slowed, catching her breath. "Yes. I mean—yes, I'm okay. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—"
His smile softened but didn't erase the concern in his eyes. "You didn't show up for our date. I waited for hours." His voice wasn't accusing. Just hurt. Confused. Trying to understand.
The guilt nearly knocked her off her feet.
"I know. I know," she breathed. "I… wasn't feeling well. I fell asleep and didn't wake up until much later. It was stupid and careless and I should have—"
He lifted a hand gently. Not touching her. Just stopping the spiral.
"Hey," he said softly. "It's okay. I'm just… glad you're alright."
But he was searching her face, like he could sense there was something more. Something she wasn't saying.
Her lie—half-truth, really—sat heavily on her tongue.
"I couldn't reach out," she murmured.
He blinked. "Well… we haven't exchanged numbers yet. Which is entirely my fault." His lips curved in a sheepish half-smile. "I was too busy being… distracted."
Heat rose to her cheeks. "Distracted?"
"By you," he said simply.
Her pulse fluttered and she had to look away. "So… you forgive me?"
"I do," he said without hesitation. Then, quieter: "But next time you disappear, please let it be for something less nerve-wracking."
She laughed softly, the sound easing something inside her. "Deal."
There was a pause, a warm one, filled with the quiet familiarity building between them.
He gestured toward the street. "I was heading into work. The office is only a few minutes from here."
She raised a brow. "Smooth transition, but okay."
He chuckled. "Actually, I was going to ask… would you like to come with me? Just for a bit. I could give you a tour."
"A tour?" She tilted her head, teasing. "Wasn't on my list of things to visit in Florence, but I suppose I could make an exception."
"Oh, you'd be honored," he deadpanned. "My office is a thrilling place. Endless paperwork. Occasional existential dread."
She laughed—really laughed—and God, it felt good.
"Lead the way then," she said, lifting her chin. "I'm always happy to see a new side of Florence."
He motioned for her to walk beside him, and she did, matching his steps.
As they turned the corner together, his voice softened, warm and genuine: "I'm really glad you came today, Lila."
She smiled up at him, heart thudding softly.
"Yeah," she murmured. "Me too."
And with that, they walked on toward his office, toward something unnamed, something fragile, something quietly beautiful.