"This is nice," I say finally. "Normal. Like something regular people do."
"We can be regular people. For today, at least." He takes a bite of cornetto, then pushes the plate toward me. "Though I don't think regular people drive Ferraris through mountain passes at illegal speeds."
"No, but regular people laugh like you did in the car." I accept a pastry, tearing off a piece. "I've never heard you laugh like that before."
"I don't laugh much."
"Why not?"
He's quiet for a moment, considering. "Nothing's been funny for a long time. Life's been... serious. Survival first, then business, then more business. Not much room for joy in that."
"And today?"
"Today you were laughing. Happy. It made me..." He trails off, searching for words. "It made me remember what that feels like."
The honesty in his voice gets to me. We're not talking about the nights, not acknowledging what's happening between us in darkness. But this—this daylight connection, this moment of shared joy—feels just as intimate in its own way.
"Tell me more about your father," I say, wanting to know more about him. “You never say much about him."
"Not much to tell. He was terrible at staying in one place. My mother thought he'd settle down when I was born, but..." He shrugs. "Some men aren't built for settling down."
"Are you?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications neither of us is ready to address. He looks at me for a long moment, something complicated in his dark eyes.
"I used to think I wasn't. That I was like him, built for chaos, not for staying." He picks up his espresso. "But lately I've been wondering if maybe I just never had a reason to stay before."
We're dancing around something huge here, something neither of us can name in daylight. But it's there in every word, every glance.
"More coffee?" The server interrupts, appearing with the pot.
"Please," I say gratefully, needing a moment to process what he just implied.
She refills our cups, chattering about the weather and the tourists. After she leaves, we fall into easier conversation about the mountains, about coffee, about nothing important and everything at once.
We stay for over an hour, just talking and drinking coffee and watching the world from this mountain perch. It's the most normal thing in the world.
No loaded silences, no pretending, no weight of trauma or violence.
Just two people enjoying each other's company on a beautiful day.
Eventually, reluctantly, we head back to the car. The drive down is slower, more relaxed, but just as enjoyable. He lets me pickthe route, turning wherever I point, getting deliberately lost on small mountain roads just because we can.
"This was perfect," I say as we approach the villa. "Thank you for planning it."
"Thank you for laughing." He pulls into the courtyard and cuts the engine. "I'll remember that sound for a long time."
We sit in the car for a moment, neither of us quite ready to return to the villa and whatever complicated reality waits there. Out there in the mountains, we could be anyone. Two people falling for each other in the simplest, most natural way.
But we're not anyone. We're us, with all our complications and darkness and the nights we pretend don't exist.
"Camilla?" He turns to face me, his expression suddenly serious. "Today was..."
"Don't," I interrupt gently. "Don't analyze it or make it into something complicated. Let it just be what it was."
"Which was?"
"A good day." I open the car door. "One of the best I've had in a very long time."
