Her eyes flick to mine before darting away, like she didn’t mean to let the spark slip through.
And I know—I’ve hooked her. Just a little. But enough.
The crew scatters the moment we hit Via della Spiga, drawn like moths to the glowing storefronts—Prada, Valentino, Gucci. Easy prey. I let them drift, their chatter fading, and close in on the only person I came here for.
Sasha.
She walks with that same clipped elegance she carries on the plane. I fall into step beside her. She stiffens, but doesn’t say a word. I don’t need her to.
“Tell me,” I say, voice pitched low, “what’s your favorite place you’ve flown to?”
Her answer is quick, rehearsed. “Paris.”
“Mm,” I murmur. “Too easy. Childhood, then. Where did you grow up?”
“Boston.” Another clipped answer, her gaze fixed straight ahead.
I smile, unbothered. I like the fight in her. “You’re good at this.”
Her brow furrows. “Good at what?”
“Keeping it surface level.” I let my eyes drift over her uniform, the perfect hair, the practiced poise. “Hiding behind the polish.”
She rolls her eyes, muttering something under her breath, but I catch it—the flicker. The crack in her armor. She dashes away from me again, and I let her, walking behind the crew as they walk ahead.
Soon, we’re at the canal.
It shimmers under the fading sunlight, water rippling with streaks of gold and black. The crew fans out, their laughter echoing as they pose for photos, phones flashing. I hang back, waiting.
Sasha stands near the railing, her arms folded loosely, gaze caught on the water as if she doesn’t even realize how beautiful she looks framed against the night.
“Let me take yours,” I say, stepping closer.
She turns, brows lifting. “I don’t need—”
But I’ve already taken her phone from her hand. She sighs, annoyed, but doesn’t protest as I step back, framing her. She doesn’t pose. That’s the trick. Instead, I wait until she glances away, a small smile tugging at her lips as the breeze lifts a strand of her hair loose from its perfect bun. I catch it then, press the shutter.
When I hand the phone back, she glances at the screen—and her breath catches.
It’s her. But not the glossy, untouchable version. Not the uniform or the polished smile. Just Sasha. Unaware. Unarmored.
“That’s….” She shakes her head, at a rare loss.
“The real you,” I finish for her, my voice quiet. “Unguarded. Relaxed.”
Her smile curves slow, genuine, unforced. And for a moment, I feel something shift. Something I didn’t plan for.
And I know—I’ll chase that smile again, whatever it takes.
She studies the photo again, biting her lip as though she doesn’t want me to see how much she likes it. Then her eyes flick up, sharp with mischief.
“So,” she says lightly, “is this something you practice on all the flight attendants you fly with? Bring them to Milan, buy them coffee, take their pictures by the canal?”
The jab is soft, but I hear the edge in it.
I let a slow smile spread across my mouth. “Guilty. But I promise, I was only doing it to practice for you.”
That earns me a small laugh, real and surprised. She shakes her head. “You’re impossible.”
