Part I
The train groaned into Verona Porta Nuova with all the drama of a Shakespearean sigh. Steam hissed, brakes screeched, and pigeons scattered like Autumn leaves riding a morning gust of wind.
Daniel, thirty-six, American, and perpetually anxious about speaking bad Italian, adjusted his backpack strap and squinted up at the departure board. Venezia Santa Lucia. Binario 8. He double-checked the number twice, because getting on the wrong train in Italy was exactly what he was best at. Even ordering coffee in Italy felt like a type of performance art.
The platform smelled of espresso and diesel. Autumn sunlight poured across the tracks, turning every surface into something cinematic: the shine of luggage wheels, pigeons pecking at crumbs, travelers hauling rolling bags and the gleam of metal train cars waiting to swallow them whole.
Daniel hauled himself up the steps into the second-class carriage and found his compartment; four seats, two facing two. The compartment was empty. Relief washed over him. No chatty tourists asking what state he was from, no old ladies scowling at his size-12 sneakers. Just him, a window, and two hours to Venice.
He slid into the corner seat and exhaled. The train jolted. Verona began to slip away.
And then, the compartment door opened.
He was tall, maybe mid-thirties, with olive skin, dark curls that fell just above his thick eyebrows, and a leather jacket worn-in enough to show character. He carried himself with that casual Italian elegance, the kind that looked like he’d been styled for an “effortless menswear” spread in GQ Italia.
He smiled. It wasn’t just polite, but rather, warm, direct, like he flashed a spotlight directly onto Daniel.
“Scusi,” he said, lifting his bag, “is this free?”
Daniel’s brain misfired. “Yes, free — uh, sì, libero.” As the words left his mouth, he knew he mangled the Italian rhythm.
The man chuckled and slid into the seat across from him. He smelled faintly of musky cologne and cigarettes, not unpleasant, but earthy, lived-in. He extended a hand across the little table that separated them. “Luca.”
“Daniel.” The handshake was firm, but lasted suspiciously too long. He immediately wondered if Luca had felt it too.
The train picked up speed and fields blurred past them, turning the outside landscape into a blurry watercolor. Daniel tried not to stare at the man across from him, but he failed miserably. Luca had the kind of face that made inappropriate thoughts seem inevitable: sharp jaw, stubbled cheeks, full lips that curved into smiles way too easily.
“So,” Luca said, resting one elbow on the table, “you are American.”
“Is it that obvious?” Daniel winced.
“Your shoes,” Luca teased, eyes glancing at the giant sneakers. “They say, ‘I am from the land of hamburgers and big cars.’”
Daniel laughed, half-embarrassed, looking at his black Converse. “Fair.”
“And why Venice?” Luca asked, tilting his head, letting his curls sway.
“Vacation. I had a work conference in Milan. Thought I’d see something beautiful before I left.”
“Ah,” Luca said, smirking. “The American dream. Eat pasta, drink wine, fall in love.”
Daniel choked on air and let out an abrupt cough. “Excuse me?”
“It is the checklist, no?” Luca leaned back as his legs stretched under the table. His left leg brushed against Daniel’s bare shin, the hairs on their respective legs briefly intertwining. Was it an accident? Daniel’s body couldn’t decide. “Pizza, gondola selfie, cheap red wine, a fling. There is always a fling.”
“I think I’ve checked off…two of those,” Daniel blushed, feeling his face grow hotter.
“Which two?” Luca pressed, eyes glinting.
He could have lied. But he already liked Luca enough to be as straightforward as possible. Besides, it wasn’t like he was ever going to see him again. “Pasta. And wine.”
“So,” Luca said, his voice dropping an octave as he looked at his watch, “you are behind schedule. You have one hour, thirty minutes to fall in love.”
Daniel burst out laughing, louder than intended. “Is this how you treat every American tourist?”
“Only the ones who laugh too much at bad jokes,” Luca said, smiling wide.
Their knees touched again. But Daniel didn’t move his leg.
It took an hour for Daniel to confess that he only spoke four Italian phrases. Luca teased him, making him repeat “grazie mille” until Daniel’s accent made it sound like “grassy middle.”
“So,” Luca asked, “in America, you are…what? Banker? Lawyer? TikTok star?”
“Marketing,” Daniel said. “Like, the way more boring version of Don Draper.”
“Ah, but maybe inside you are mysterious,” Luca countered, leaning forward mischievously, elbows on the table. “A man of secrets.”
“You’re very dramatic, you know that?” Daniel laughed shakily.
“Of course. I am Italian.”
Something unspoken flickered under their banter. What Daniel really wanted to ask was, Are you flirting with me, or am I just projecting? But the words were jammed in his throat like hairball clogged in a drain.
“It’s…hard sometimes,” he said instead, “not knowing when you can say how you feel.”
Luca tilted his head. “Ah. You mean not knowing if someone is like you.”
Daniel’s breath caught in his throat. He nodded faintly.
Luca broke into a smile. “Then you wait. Or you risk.”
Daniel laughed nervously, a blend of relief and tension, as his knee pressed more firmly against Luca’s under the table. Risk. Luca kept his dark eyes locked onto Daniel’s blue ones, almost as if he were challenging him. The warmth of their legs was just enough to light the spark. And Daniel stoked the flame. He let his hand fall past the table and onto Luca’s muscled leg, covered in dark hair. He traced the sinewy musculature in tiny swirls until he approached the hem of Luca’s shorts, resting high on his thigh. Luca let out the smallest “umphh.”
It was the green light Daniel needed.
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