Chapter Sixteen
Julian
There was darkness.
And then there was his voice.
“Rise and shine!”
I cracked open one eye, wincing at the blinding flood of sunlight pouring into the room. The goddamn curtains. He opened the curtains.
Of course he did.
Miles Bennett stood there like the poster child for sunshine itself—grinning, practically glowing, like dragging me out of bed was some sort of charity act he was proud to perform.
His ridiculous hair was a mess, sticking out at the sides like he’d just rolled out of bed.
Which, apparently, he had. Right into my morning.
I groaned and turned my face into the pillow.
“Go away,” I muttered. My voice was rough with sleep, low, cracked. “Close the damn curtains and leave me alone.”
But he didn’t.
Of course he didn’t.
“Come on, it’s a beautiful day! You can’t stay in bed forever.” His voice was way too cheerful for this hour—light and playful, like the world outside didn’t eat people alive for breakfast.
I sighed, dragging a hand down my face, trying to force the fog from my brain.
This was... different.
No shrill alarms.
No angry calls from Bradley barking about schedules.
No Victor’s cold, clipped voice telling me I was late.
Just him. Miles. Sunshine in human form. Waking me like this was normal. Like he belonged here.
I hated how it threw me off.
I pushed up onto my elbows, glaring through messy hair. “Did anyone tell you you’re insufferable in the morning?”
He grinned wider, completely unbothered. “Every morning. Especially by my sisters.”
I rolled my eyes and flopped back onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling.
“Why are you like this?” I muttered, rubbing at my temple. My head still spun from last night—Victor’s voice, the weight in my chest. But now here was this fool, acting like the world wasn’t falling apart.
And for some stupid reason...
...I didn’t tell him to shut up. Or to get the hell back on his side.
Not yet.
I was ready to sink back into sleep. Pretend this trip—or at least this day—didn’t exist.
But Miles wasn’t done.
“Oh, by the way,” he said way too cheerfully, like this was some casual reminder instead of the worst news of my morning, “our managers said we have to go out into the city today. Something about ‘buzz’ and ‘believability’ for the collab. You know. Be seen.”
I groaned into the pillow.
“No way in hell,” I muttered, dragging the blanket higher over my head like armor. “Not happening. I’m not playing tourist with you for some stupid PR stunt.”
The blanket was suddenly yanked away—ripped right off me with one sharp tug.
“Hey—!” I snapped, glaring as I sat up, half-blind in the morning light.
Miles stood there, holding my blanket hostage in both hands, grinning like a kid who just stole the cookie jar.
“No hiding, Julian Vale. You heard them. We have to make this look real,” he said, wiggling the blanket in the air for emphasis.
“Besides... could be fun. When’s the last time you actually saw a city you worked in? ”
I squinted at him, my eyes narrow slits. “I work in cities. I don’t play in them.”
“Maybe you should try.” His smile grew. Damn him. “Come on. Florence, Italy. People save their whole lives to come here. You really wanna sleep through it?”
I ran a hand down my face and sighed hard.
God help me... he wasn’t going to let this go.
I don’t know how the hell he did it, but somehow Miles Bennett managed to drag me outside.
The streets of Florence were warm underfoot, golden with morning light that spilled like syrup between narrow alleys and ancient buildings.
Tourists clustered everywhere, snapping photos, gasping over the Duomo’s towering dome or the glittering shop windows lining the Ponte Vecchio.
The air smelled like fresh espresso and sweet pastries. It should’ve been pleasant.
But it wasn’t.
It was crowded. Loud. Annoying.
“This is insane,” I muttered, tugging the brim of my baseball cap lower to shield my face from stares and camera phones. “I look ridiculous.”
“You look like every other grumpy tourist trying to be invisible,” Miles grinned, walking beside me with his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, eyes everywhere. “Relax. No one cares.”
“I care,” I grumbled. “There are people. And cameras. I hate this.”
He chuckled. Like this was all some kind of joke. “Welcome to Italy, Vale. You should be grateful they told us to do this. You ever get free time like this in L.A.?”
“No. And I liked it that way.”
Miles stopped suddenly in front of a tiny gelato stand. The line wasn’t long, but the colors in the glass case were bright and ridiculous—pistachio green, lemon yellow, blood orange.
“Ooh. Gelato.” His eyes lit up. “We’re getting some. It’s mandatory. Like, legally. Right?”
I gave him the most unamused stare I could manage. “Do I look like I want gelato at ten in the morning?”
He smirked. “Yes, actually.”
I opened my mouth to snap something back, but... his smile was too bright. Too genuine. Like this whole miserable forced outing actually made him happy. “Fine,” I muttered. “But I’m not eating anything pink.”
“Deal.” He flashed that stupid grin again and stepped into line. “See? Progress already. Next thing you know you’ll be smiling.”
“Don’t push your luck, Bennett.”
We wandered on after that—past old leather shops, street artists sketching tourists for twenty euros a pop, the distant bell of the cathedral clock tower ringing through the morning.
Miles talked the whole time, some rambling nonsense about how his mom would love this place and how he wanted to visit every café on the street.
I barely listened. But... some of it soaked in anyway.
Somewhere between his babbling and the smell of roasting chestnuts, my shoulders eased the tiniest bit. “Still grumpy?” Miles asked, glancing sideways at me as we passed under a stone archway covered in flowering vines.
“Always,” I said flatly.
He just laughed again. Like he already expected that.
The sun was too damn bright.
And the gelato in my hand was too damn sweet.
I stared down at the melting cup of pistachio—Miles’s stupid insistence—barely lifting the tiny plastic spoon to my mouth. He was beside me, happily destroying a double scoop of something absurdly colorful like a kid on summer break.
“See? Not so bad,” Miles said, grinning at me like I’d just agreed to rescue puppies from a burning building. “Pistachio was a solid choice.”
I didn’t answer. I shoved the spoon into my mouth just to shut him up for two seconds. Sweet. Cold. Not terrible.
But I hated this.
Not the gelato. Not the sunshine or the crumbling cobblestone streets of Florence.
I hated being this... exposed.
Every time a camera clicked in the distance or someone’s phone lifted—just out of the corner of my eye—I felt my stomach twist. Every hair on the back of my neck stood up.
Miles was still chatting—about the city, the history, the smell of fresh bread from a cart nearby—when I caught it.
A group of tourists near the fountain. Whispering. Pointing. Their eyes flicking straight to me.
Panic prickled under my skin.
Miles noticed too. I saw the change in his smile. How it faltered for half a breath.
He leaned closer and murmured, “Do you trust me?”
I snorted without thinking. “Absolutely not.”
His grin spread wider—dangerous and stupid.
“Perfect.”
Before I could blink, his hand grabbed mine.
Warm. Firm. Real.
My entire body tensed like he’d shoved me against a wall. He’s touching you. He’s touching you. But he didn’t yank. Didn’t pull hard. He laced his fingers with mine like it was natural. Like it was allowed.
And then he was running.
“Come on, Vale!” he laughed, dragging me down the street. Dodging the staring tourists, weaving between flower carts and leather shops like this was some kind of movie.
I should’ve ripped my hand away. Snapped at him. Something.
But I didn’t.
His grip was warm, steady, alive.
And for some stupid reason I couldn’t explain, I let him pull me along.
I wasn’t following orders.
I wasn’t obeying Victor.
I wasn’t posing for a camera.
I was just—running.
And God help me... I didn’t hate it.
He sat down on my bed like he belonged there. Now he’s dragging me through Florence like I’m part of his world. Like I’m normal. Like I’m free.
I wanted to snap at him. Call him an idiot. Punch his shoulder.
But instead, breathless, dodging past a couple and slipping on old stone, all I could manage was a mutter. “Perfect. Now he kidnaps me too.”
Miles only laughed louder.
And I didn’t stop him.
We finally stumbled into the lobby of the hotel—marble floors, glass walls, air conditioning cold against my sweat-damp skin.
Miles let out this breathless, ridiculous laugh, doubling over with his hands on his knees like dragging me through the streets of Florence was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
I yanked my hand away.
Hard.
His laughter cut off for a moment, glancing up at me with those wide golden-brown eyes.
“Don’t do that again,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair, heart hammering like I’d just survived a war zone. “Dragging me off like some lost tourist.”
“Worked, didn’t it?” he said, grinning as he straightened, like this was all some great game and not my worst nightmare come to life. “They stopped looking. You even smiled a little—”
“I did not.”
“You did.” He stepped closer, still out of breath, still glowing from the run like the damn human sun. “Admit it, Vale. You had fun.”
“Fun?” I scoffed, crossing my arms over my chest, dragging my eyes away from him and up toward the sleek chandelier hanging from the ceiling. “Being pulled down the street like some... circus act? Yeah. A real thrill ride.”
My chest was still tight, but not out of anger. And my palms still felt the warmth of his grip.
I hated that. I hated that a part of me wanted him to grab my hand again.