'It's beautiful here.'
Attached was a picture of a bustling French street.
Giovanni read it once. Then again. And again, like the words were in another language he was trying to translate.
Then, slowly, a grin tugged at his lips.
She'd texted.
Not the usual 'Just landed' or 'Made it safe'. Something thoughtful, like she'd chosen her words carefully.
His thumb hovered over the screen. He typed, erased, typed again.
Finally, he settled on: 'Mm. Good.'
Send.
*
Salomé eased into the rhythm of France. Her days were full—lectures in grand halls, café stops with classmates, conversations that ran late. The streets buzzed with life, every corner a new discovery.
In their downtime, she explored. Paris unfolded before her like a novel she didn't want to finish.
Back home, Giovanni's days were no less full. The grind of med school was constant—early mornings, long rounds, endless notes. He was always tired, always moving, always surrounded by the pulse of urgency.
But every night, without fail, he paused.
Her texts were his quiet. She sent pictures, little wonders, random thoughts—how the rain felt different, how the language sounded softer in the evenings, how she saw a child dancing to music in the street.
He didn't always know how to respond. So he kept it simple.
She didn't mind his quietness. If anything, it grounded her. She didn't need paragraphs. She just needed to know he was there.
The late-night texts were brief but steady. Subtle but strong. A small routine that neither of them named, but relied on.
*
Her last lecture ended quite early. Outside, the sky hung low and gray. Her classmates buzzed about one final night out in Paris.
Salomé took a rain check.
Few hours later, she was on the next flight back home. She genuinely enjoyed her time here and was going to miss it. But there was something she missed even more. Or rather, someone.
The way his eyes expressed more than he wanted to let on, his hand raking through his hair, his slow-building smirk that he tried very hard for her not to see.
She leaned against the window and let her eyes fall shut.
Giovanni had no idea she was returning.
The whole flight, she replayed a thousand versions of his reaction in her head. Would he be surprised? Speechless? Pretend not to care? Or would he just look at her like he'd been expecting her all along?
By the time the plane touched down in Florence, the sun had already dipped below the skyline, leaving behind that deep, dusky glow that blurred the line between evening and night.
The city was quieter than Paris, familiar in its stillness. It felt like returning to a version of herself she'd briefly left behind.
She took a cab to the neighborhood. Her suitcase wheels hummed over the uneven sidewalk, her coat wrapped tight as she neared the apartment.
Maybe she should've texted first. Just a heads-up. Not to catch him off guard.
But truthfully, she liked the idea of just… showing up.
When she reached the building, her heart was thudding in her chest—a steady beat of anticipation.
The elevator doors dinged. She stepped out, pulled her key from her coat pocket, and slipped it into the door.
The door opened and warmth met her instantly. The lights were low, golden.
From the kitchen came the soft simmer of a pot and the rhythmic chop of a knife that filled the silence.
Giovanni stood facing away, headphones on, humming low under his breath.
She closed the door quietly and stood there for a moment, just watching.
Bare from the waist up, the sharp lines of his back flexed with each movement—defined, sculpted, the muscles moving under skin like it was choreographed.
His sweatpants hung low on his hips, clinging to him in a way that made it hard to look away.
She didn't call his name.
She just… watched.
Then the thoughts came. Unfiltered. Intrusive.
Heat stirred low in her stomach and crawled beneath her skin.
She walked closer, her footsteps swallowed by the hum of his music.
For once, she didn't second-guess herself.
She reached out slowly, and let her fingers touch his back, grazing the heat of his warm skin.
Giovanni tensed slightly, not out of fear, but surprise. He turned and nearly bumped into her, but steadied himself with a hand on the counter.
His blue eyes opened wide for a moment, then narrowed with a sharp flicker of recognition.
He slid his headphones down to his neck.
They stood close—too close. Her hand still half-lifted between them. She didn't move away. Neither did he. The countertop was at his back. Her presence kept him pinned, like she'd trapped him without meaning to.
Her gaze dropped before she could stop it. From his eyes to his jaw, rough with stubble. Down his throat, where his Adam's apple shifted under his skin. His chest, his abs. Lower.
Her breath caught.
And then—his hand was on her chin, tilting her gaze back up, catching her before she went any further.
Holding her there.
"You're… back," he said, voice low and rough.
Salomé smiled. Slow. Unapologetic.
"Mmhmm," she said, her tone barely above a whisper. "Surprise."