“You see?” he asks, turning to me and smiling, eyes glittering in the low, intimate light of the room.
The restaurant is small. Tiny, even. Only four small tables occupy the space, with an L-shaped bar at the far corner leading back to the kitchen. The walls and arched ceiling are stone, warm lighting provided by candles on the tables and old-fashioned wall sconces. It’s dark, cozy, and romantic. And, judging by the table of patrons who are wearing shorts and tank tops, looser on the dress code than I would have guessed. I look at Niilo, waiting patiently at my side as I take in the space, and reach for his hand.
Thin fingers slide between mine, and he gives me as much of a squeeze as his smaller hand can manage. I feel like a behemoth next to him—large and hairy, compared to his small, lithe frame. I think maybe he likes it though, if the way he gazes at me is any clue.
A man approaches us, glancing between us before settling his gaze on me.
“Niilo Ahonen?” he asks. “Party for two?”
“Sì, grazie,” Niilo answers, in perfectly accented Italian. The host’s gaze snaps to him, and he gestures for us to follow with abob of his head. We barely have to walk ten steps from the door, before he’s pulling out our chairs for us.
“May I bring you anything to drink?” he asks, plucking out a wine menu from his apron and holding it out between us, as though waiting for one of us to take the initiative. I glance at Niilo, blushing. I don’t know a damn thing about wine, despite having spent all of yesterday at a winery.
“Would you mind if I ordered for us?” Niilo asks me, gently taking the wine menu from the waiter’s hand.
“Not at all.”
“Dinner too?” he clarifies, eyes sparkling in the glimmer of the candle between us. I can hear his earlier entreaty to trust him, whispered in his soft, melodic voice.
“Please.”
He smiles, pleased, and turns to the man waiting patiently next to the table. Niilo falls into smooth Italian, eyes scanning the menu only barely, before he speaks directly to the waiter. I watch his face as he talks, letting the words wash over me like ocean waves, cool and soothing and smooth. In this lighting, his pale hair and skin are luminous, unblemished and lovely, like a rare gem that glows in the dark.
I give myself an internal shake as the waiter nods at me, before walking away and slipping behind the bar. Niilo sits back in his chair, far enough that I can see a strip of skin visible between the hem of his shirt and where the table is blocking the rest of the view. He smiles at me.
“Would you like to be surprised?” he asks, making me chuckle.
“Sounds good to me. You’re fluent in Italian?” I’m impressed, and it’s evident in my tone if the gratified look on Niilo’s face is any indication.
“Not fluent, no, but I can get by. I’ve been here almost three months, so I’ve picked up a few things.” He lifts one narrowshoulder in a casual shrug, as though “picking up” a language isn’t impressive.
“Wow. I’m ashamed to say I don’t know any languages beyond English. Three years of Spanish in high school taught me nothing at all.”
He laughs, not even breaking eye contact with me as he thanks the waiter who steps up to pour our wine. I wait for him to leave before picking up the glass and swirling it around, sniffing.
“I spent three hours learning how to properly drink wine, yesterday,” I tell Niilo, whose lips twitch.
“Oh?”
“I’m here to report that my palate is not refined enough to tell the difference between any of them, nor is my nose smart enough to identify separate aromas.”
He laughs, reaching for his own glass and taking a sip. When he licks his lips, I wonder if I would be able to taste it, were I to kiss him. I bet I’d be able to pick out taste profiles then.
Niiloand I spend so long in the little underground eatery that by the time we surface, the sky is full of stars and the streets are quiet. I glance down at my companion, who’s got his head tipped back as he looks up at the sky.
“Want to walk?” I ask, in no way ready to head back to the hotel unless he comes with me. Which, as tempting as that might be, isn’t what I want this to be about. I don’t want him to think he’s just a vacation hookup, or an item to be crossed off the bucket list.
His eyes, bright enough for me to see the blue, even in the dark, find mine.
“Absolutely.”
I’ve got both hands tucked into my pockets, but that doesn’t stop him from wrapping thin fingers around my forearm and sliding them downward in a clear request. Blushing, and hoping it’s not visible in the low light, I free my hand and link my fingers with his for the second time this evening. He smiles happily, and gives me a little tug, setting off down the street to the right.
“Did you decide where you’re headed next?” he asks, walking near enough that his arm and shoulder brush against me, and I can smell the fresh, minty smell of him.
“Mm, sort of…” I trail off, squinting into the dark, and think about how to ask this without scaring the shit out of him.
During dinner, I’d gotten him talking about his travels. He’d been so animated—chest pressed against the edge of the table as he leaned toward me, eyes wide with joy, and hands gesturing as though words alone simply weren’t enough to tell the story adequately. I’d sat and listened, losing the fight against my smile, and thought to myself,this cannot be it for us.
