21. Baleigh
BALEIGH
Rome doesn't breathe; it vibrates. By ten in the morning, the heat already bakes the travertine fountains and the scent of diesel and roasted espresso climbs into the office windows. I lean over a spreadsheet, ticking off names as the three-day Rome excursion hits its stride.
"Group A is at the Capitoline," I murmur, sliding a highlighter over the paper. "Group B is doing the catacombs. Everyone’s accounted for."
I love this rhythm. The chaos of the program has smoothed into a professional hum. I am a part of the machine now, not just a spare gear rattling around. Outside, a street performer plays a frantic accordion version of Volare, and for a second, everything feels exactly as it should.
"Baleigh."
Amos doesn't yell, but the tone of my name makes me drop my pen. He’s standing in the doorway, his usual easy-going slouch replaced by a rigid, military straightness.
"Tell me Sadie Millione checked in via the app," he says.
I scan the digital dashboard. My stomach drops. "Her GPS pinged near the Trastevere market three hours ago. Nothing since. She missed the noon check-in at the Piazza Navona."
"I’ve tried her cell four times. Straight to voicemail." Amos is already zipping up his light jacket, his movements economical and swift. "The market is a maze on Tuesdays. If she lost her phone or got her pocket picked, she’s likely panicked."
The comfortable rhythm shatters. "I'll pull up her emergency contact file and her itinerary for the morning," I say, voice steady despite the flutter in my chest.
"Good. Stay on the dashboard. If that ping moves even a block, call me.
" Amos is already scrolling through his contacts, likely reaching out to the local Carabinieri or the program's security consultants.
He looks different—the playful traveler is gone, replaced instead by a man who moves with terrifying precision.
I pull up the map of Trastevere, my fingers flying across the keys.
I retrace Sandra’s planned route, marking the side streets where a student might get turned around.
"Amos, she mentioned wanting to find that specific vintage leather shop on Via della Scala. It’s tucked away in an alley.
If she took a wrong turn there, she’s completely off the main drag. "
"I'm heading there now." He pauses at the door, eyes locking onto mine. "Keep the other students in their hubs. Don’t let the rumor mill start. You’re my anchor here, Baleigh."
"Go," I tell him, already opening the group chat to send out a 'Status Yellow' check-in. "I’ve got the perimeter."
The sun creeps across the office floor, turning the dust into sparks, but I don’t leave the screen. Two hours since Sandra went dark. My phone buzzes on the desk—a text from Amos.
Heading toward the river. Market security says a blonde girl in a yellow jacket was seen heading toward Ponte Sisto. Check if she posted any stories in the last ten minutes.
I’m already three clicks deep into her social media. "Nothing new on Instagram, but she just logged into a public Wi-Fi at a café called Bar San Calisto," I say into the headset.
"On it," Amos replies. His voice is a steady frequency that keeps my own breathing level. There’s no trace of the man who joked about botched Vespa rides or chased street performers through Florence.
This Amos is a strategist. He manages the local authorities with a fluency that borders on hypnotic, his Italian sharp and commanding, yet he never loses that thread of empathy.
He doesn't just want to find a student; he wants to protect a soul.
He moves through Rome like he owns the blueprints. Between updates, he checks in on me.
"You doing okay, Baleigh? Don't forget to drink some water. I need your brain sharp for the next twenty minutes."
"I'm fine," I tell him, cross-referencing the café's location with the nearest bus routes. "Amos, if she’s there, she might be trying to find the 8 line. It stops right outside."
"I'm crossing the piazza now. Let’s assume she’s confused by the detour sign on Viale di Trastevere."
"I'll pull up the detour map and see where it dumps passengers."
"Perfect. You’re always one step ahead."
We fall into a seamless loop. I provide the data; he provides the boots on the ground. We don't need long explanations. A half-sentence from him is enough for me to understand the shift in his priority. It’s an effortless synchronization, a shared pulse in the midst of the Roman franticness.
A grainy photo hits my inbox. It’s a shot of the café’s terrace. Found the yellow dress, he texts. She’s safe. Lost her phone in a taxi, just like you guessed.
A massive weight leaves my ribs. "Thank God."
"I'm bringing her back," Amos says, his voice losing its edge, softening into that familiar warmth. "Baleigh? We make a hell of a team. I don’t think I’ve ever had a lead-in that smooth."
"It felt easy," I admit, leaning back and finally noticing the ache in my shoulders. "Too easy."
The tension in the office evaporates the moment Sandra walks through the door, teary-eyed and clutching a paper bag of pastries Amos clearly bought to soothe her nerves.
After the paperwork is signed and the girl is safely tucked into her dorm with a stern warning and a hug, the silence of the Roman evening settles in.
Amos and I exit the building into a city that has traded its frantic vibration for a honey-hued glow. The streetlamps spill soft light onto the cobblestones of the Via dei Coronari. We walk in step, the click of my sandals echoing against the hush of the limestone walls.
"You're shaking," Amos says. He doesn't look at me, but his hand finds mine, his thumb grazing my knuckles.
"Adrenaline crash," I breathe, leaning my shoulder against his arm. "I kept imagining the worst-case scenarios. I thought I was ready for the chaos, but when it’s real... when a life is actually in your hands..."
Amos stops near a darkened fountain, the water trickling like a secret whispered in the dark. He lets out a long, jagged exhale and rubs the back of his neck. The confident, unshakable coordinator I’ve watched all summer seems to sag. The shadows under his eyes look deeper in this light.
"Every single time," he says, voice barely a murmur. "I’ve done this for a decade. I’ve handled broken bones in Prague and lost passports in Tokyo. You’d think the panic would blunt itself, but it doesn't. It just gets heavier."
I look at him, really seeing the tension held in the set of his jaw. "You make it look like a game, Amos. You’re always the one with the joke, the one who knows exactly where the hidden exit is."
"Because if I don't, no one else will." He turns to face me, his eyes clouded with a vulnerability that makes my chest ache. "I lie awake at night counting heads. I see their faces—all these kids who think they’re invincible—and I realize I’m the only thing standing between them and a disaster they aren't prepared for. Their parents trust me with their entire world. It’s a lot of weight to carry alone, Baleigh. "
I reach out, resting my palm against his chest. His heart beats a steady, heavy rhythm under the thin fabric of his shirt.
The "fun" coordinator is gone, replaced by someone exhausted by the sheer gravity of his own competence.
He isn't just a traveler; he's a guardian who never gets to take his armor off.
"You aren't alone anymore," I say.
Amos covers my hand with his, leaning his forehead against mine. "I'm starting to realize that."
The courtyard of our terminal is quiet, the air heavy with blooming jasmine and old stone.
Amos lingers for a second, his hand still covering mine against his chest. The frantic energy of the search has burned away, leaving something raw and quiet between us.
He looks at me then—not with the mischievous glint I’ve grown used to, but with a weary, profound relief.
“Get some sleep,” he says, his voice a low rasp. “I think we’ve both earned a few hours of silence.”
He squeezes my fingers once and turns toward his apartment wing. I watch him walk away, his silhouette momentarily framed by the archway. The jaunty spring is gone from his step, replaced by the heavy tread of one who just finished a shift on the front lines.
I climb the stairs to my room, but the silence inside feels too loud. I drop onto the edge of my bed and stare at my reflection in the darkened window.
All summer, I’ve categorized the men in this world.
Max is the intellectual challenge, the one who makes me want to be smarter and bolder.
Atticus is the mystery, the one who makes me want to see the world through a different lens.
And I thought I knew Amos. I thought he was the escape—the laughter, the late-night Vespa rides, the breezy charm that made everything feel light.
But I was wrong.
Today, I didn’t see the entertainer. I saw the anchor. Every time he called in, every time he checked on my well-being while he was shoulder-deep in a crisis, he was proving something far more vital than charisma. He showed me a man who doesn't crumble when the floor gives way.
My family back home always preached about the "safe path," but they defined safety as a lack of movement, a refusal to change. Amos defines it differently. He moves constantly, he embraces the chaos, but he creates a perimeter of safety for everyone around him.
It’s a different kind of attraction than I feel for the others.
It isn't just a spark or a shared secret; it’s a terrifyingly deep sense of security.
I realize I’m not just falling for the guy who can find a hidden bar in Florence.
I’m falling for the man who would come find me in a storm and never let go.
Underneath the jokes and the breezy "yeses," there is a bedrock I didn't expect to find.
I can trust him with more than just a check-in list. I can trust him with everything.