Catching Flights

The bright morning sun filtering through curtains wakes her earlier than her alarm. Sitting up with a stretch and a yawn, she gets up to take a nice warm shower. Her suitcase is already packed—stuffed with silky dresses, designer swimsuits, and her favorite strappy heels—ready for her flight later today. She glances at her passport on the nightstand, the pages thick with stamps, and smiles—another adventure awaits.

The scent of espresso fills the apartment as she sips from a tiny porcelain cup, scrolling through last-minute travel tips on her phone. Her mother’s voice echoes in her head, the usual lecture about safety and "settling down," but Sierra dismisses it with a flick of her wrist. The thrill of stepping onto foreign soil, the rush of new sights and tastes, is all that matters.

She gives her parents a long hug before sliding into the waiting cab, pretending not to see her mother wiping her eyes. The airport buzzes with early-morning travelers, but Sierra moves through security like she owns the place—ankle boots clicking, oversized sunglasses perched just so. *"Finally heading back home".* She thought with a sigh as she sat herself down on the first class section of the airplane and slipped her shoes off. Italy, her birthplace, was calling her name again.

*She isn't meeting any man or mention until i give you the signal*

The plane shuddered as it broke through the clouds, revealing the jagged coastline of the Amalfi Coast below—cerulean waves crashing against cliffs dotted with pastel villas. Sierra pressed her forehead to the window, her pulse quickening. A flight attendant materialized with a flute of champagne, murmuring in accented English about "complimentary upgrades for our valued first-class guests." Sierra smirked, swirling the bubbles absently while mentally cataloguing her itinerary: Positano first, then Capri, then maybe a detour to that hidden truffle farm near Florence if she could charm the right local into an introduction.

Her phone buzzed against her thigh—a flurry of texts from her Milanese cousin demanding she "swing by the family vineyard" for dinner. Scrolling past the messages, she paused at a year-old photo of Nonna kneading dough in their ancestral kitchen, flour dusting her forearms like snow. The pang of nostalgia surprised her; she hadn’t expected to feel anything deeper than sun-warmed linen and limoncello on this trip.

As the wheels hit the tarmac, she snapped a selfie—lips glossed, hair artfully tousled—and captioned it *

"La dolce vita, take two"* before posting it on Instagram. The moment the cabin doors opened, humid Mediterranean air rushed in, thick with the scent of salt and citrus, instantly transporting her back to childhood summers spent chasing fireflies through olive groves. Stepping into the terminal, she adjusted her silk scarf and caught her reflection in the glass—every inch the glamorous jetsetter, though her stomach fluttered with something more complicated than excitement.

After arriving to the Castello Di Ama resort early in the afternoon, she was greeted by name before she even reached the check-in counter—likely flagged by her social media post. A bellboy whisked away her Louis Vuitton suitcase with a murmured "Benvenuta, signorina," while the concierge slid a room key across polished marble and winked. "Your balcony overlooks the vineyards… and the sunset." Sierra traced the embossed keycard with her acrylic french tips—a tiny thrill ran through her at the unspoken promise of indulgence.

The room smelled of lavender and lemon wood, the crisp sheets so white they glowed against the terracotta floors. Sierra tossed her sunhat onto the four-poster bed and immediately cranked open the floor-to-ceiling windows, inhaling the dizzying perfume of ripening grapes and distant sea spray. Below, a turquoise pool curved around ancient stone columns where three women in wide-brimmed hats sipped Aperol spritzes, their laughter floating up like wind chimes.

She opens up her suitcase to change into something more relaxed—a light one shoulder strap shirt with a cool, yellow maxi skirt and sandals. At a nice restaurant a few miles away from the resort, she sits outside, under a vine-covered pergola, and orders a plate of handmade gnocchi with a glass of Pinot Grigio. The first bite sends an involuntary hum of pleasure past her lips—no one makes pasta like home. Across the piazza, an elderly couple bickers over espresso cups, their wrinkled hands brushing between outbursts, and something about their familiar rhythm makes Sierra's throat tighten.

After finishing up by paying the bill, she walks back to the resort in the hot Italian afternoon, her sandals clicking gently against the cobblestone streets. The sweat running down her spine makes her regret not changing into something lighter, but she gets a bit distracted by the crowd that settles around the piazza—street musicians tuning their violins, children chasing pigeons with sticky fingers clutching gelato cones. She stops by a cart selling fresh peaches, buys one on impulse, and bites into the soft flesh, juice dripping onto her fingers. The sweetness is almost scandalous—nothing like the bland supermarket fruit she’d grown used to abroad.

Back at the resort, she strips off her outfit and steps under an outdoor shower hidden behind a curtain of bougainvillea, the cold water shocking against her sun-warmed skin. As she towels off, she begins shaving her legs with meticulous care—just in case—before slipping into a barely-there bikini she'd bought in Saint-Tropez last summer. The gold hoops she fastens catch the light as she dabs vanilla-scented oil along her collarbones, her reflection in the full-length mirror approving.

She walks to the bed, ready to call her mom to update her. She grabs her phone—her mom already sent a text asking if she arrived safely. Sierra quickly types out *Sí, mama. I'm safe and already eating well. Ti amo.* She tosses the phone onto the silky sheets and stretches out, her fingers brushing the crisp linen as she stares at the vaulted ceiling. A breeze carries in the faint sound of a guitarist playing near the pool, the melody lazy and seductive, like the heat itself had fingers plucking the strings.

The scent of rosemary and grilled seafood drifts up from the resort's terrace restaurant, making her stomach growl despite the gnocchi still sitting heavy in her gut. She considers ordering room service just to lounge in the plush bathrobe a little longer, but the promise of golden hour by the pool—and maybe a perfectly timed cocktail—lures her back outside after changing into a light, breezy dress with a head scarf. Grinning, she pulls out her phone to take another selfie to post. She angles it carefully, including the breathtaking view of rolling vineyards and distant hills, then types "Sunset and spritz—Italy, I missed you" before hitting send.

Her sandals flop the warm stone steps down to the pool, where the same women from earlier now recline on chaises, their skin gleaming under the fading sunlight. One of them—a striking brunette with a raspy laugh—catches Sierra's gaze and lifts her glass with a smile. Sierra responds with a smiling wave before walking back into the city, already ready for a man. She pulls out that phone—once again—to make a tinder profile. On the app, she chooses a nice photo of her before adding her bio and things she wants in a man. She hits confirm before tossing it back inside of her purse.

The piazza hums with renewed energy as evening approaches—candles flicker in wrought-iron lanterns above trattoria tables, and the scent of slow-roasted pork belly mingles with the sharp tang of spilled wine. Sierra weaves through clusters of laughing tourists, her bare shoulders brushing against strangers in the golden haze. A few locals walk over to greet her—recognizing the De Rito surname—and offer shots of homemade limoncello in tiny, chilled glasses. The burn down her throat is electric, and for a moment, she’s fourteen again, sneaking sips from her mom’s pantry.

Her phone buzzes relentlessly in her purse—Tinder matches piling up. She smiles in flattery, heat rising from her neck to her cheeks. *"I'm already a catch!"* Opening the app, she sees different men and even saves a few to contact. After that, she resumes exploring—stopping by a painting easel with an idea already forming. She picks up the art supplies carefully before creating the masterpiece of two cats dressed in the Victorian era. With a hearty laugh, she throws her head back in genuine pride and amusement. The painter beside her raises an eyebrow, then chuckles at her creation before muttering, *"Americani,"* under his breath. Sierra shoots him a playful glare—*"Italian, actually,"* she corrects, flicking her hair over one shoulder before adding a tiny top hat to one of her feline aristocrats.

The air grows cooler as the sun begins lowering , and Sierra finds herself drawn to a dimly lit enoteca tucked between souvenir shops. Inside, the walls are lined with dusty wine bottles, their labels browned with age. She decides to send one of her matches a text to invite him, Mario. (Mario is a 44 year old man and a cat lover) After a while, he arrives—tall, with salt-and-pepper stubble and a navy linen shirt rolled to his elbows. He kisses her knuckles with old-world charm, his calloused fingers lingering just a second too long.

Over a shared platter of aged pecorino and fig jam—"You must try the 1997 Barolo," he insists—she discovers he breeds Abyssinian cats and owns a vineyard near Montepulciano. His laugh is deep, vibrating through the wooden table between them when she tells him about her Victorian cat painting.

"Your cats," Mario says, swirling his wine with exaggerated solemnity, "would undoubtedly prefer Renaissance attire. Velvet doublets, perhaps." Sierra smirks, tapping her nails against her glass. "They're revolutionaries," she counters. "Top hats or nothing." The conversation feels like a tennis match—polite but perfunctory—and when he leans in to mention his divorce (Four years ago, but the paperwork never really ends), she suppresses a sigh. Outside, the piazza erupts with cheers as a group of teenagers kick a soccer ball dangerously close to a gelato stand. Sierra seizes the distraction. "I should see what that’s about," she lies, already sliding her chair back. Mario’s smile falters, but he stands to kiss her cheek—his aftershave smells like pine and regret. "Arrivederci,* principessa," he murmurs, knowing there isn't a connection between them before walking away.

She sighs in relief, walking towards a tourist attraction to take photos. She snaps a few pictures—one of herself mid-laugh, another with her thumb hooked in the strap of her sundress while leaning against an ancient stone fountain. The golden light of dusk makes everything look touched by magic, and for a brief, dizzying moment, she wonders if she should’ve given Mario more of a chance. But the thought evaporates as quickly as the sweat at the small of her back—she didn’t come here to settle for lukewarm chemistry.

The next attraction is a crumbling chapel perched above the coastline, its arched doorway framing a view of the sea that steals Sierra’s breath. She ducks inside, the sudden coolness raising goosebumps on her arms. Faded frescoes of saints peel from the walls, their eyes following her as she trails fingers over a pew worn smooth by centuries of prayer. A votive candle flickers near the altar—someone’s recent offering—and the scent of beeswax mingles with the salt air drifting through broken stained glass.

Strutting over to a nice water fountain near the statue, she decides to make a wish. She folds a Euro coin between her palms like Nonna taught her, whispering *"Fammi trovare qualcosa che valga la pena"*—*make me find something worth it*—before tossing it in with a splash. The water glints copper under the light, and she swears she hears laughter echo from the chapel’s shadowed corners. Her heart flutters at the thought of finding love in such a romantic country—she wants passion, something good and goes with her aspiration in life.

As she's sitting near the water fountain editing her photos from earlier, she looks up to see a handsome man with grey hair and glasses. She notices him walking over to her—his movements deliberate, unhurried—as if he's known this plaza, this fountain, this exact slant of golden hour light his entire life. "My name's Rowan. But you can call me tonight." The man says teasingly, his Italian accent thick but his English fluent. Before she can reply, he adds, "Your laugh carried all the way to my house. I had to see who owned it." Sierra feels her cheeks flush—not from the heat, but from the way his gaze lingers on the mole beneath her left eye like he's memorizing it.

"Thank you, Rowan," Sierra purrs, tilting her chin up just enough to let the dying sunlight catch the gold hoops in her ears. There's something about the way his linen shirt strains against his forearms when he tucks his hands in his pockets—like he's holding back from touching her—that makes her pulse thrum. "But my laugh isn't free. It costs one terrible joke or one embarrassing childhood story. Your choice."

Rowan throws his head back with a laugh, the sound rich and unguarded, and Sierra notices the way his throat moves, the shadow of stubble along his jaw catching the light. "When I was twelve," he begins, leaning against the fountain's edge, close enough that his knee brushes her bare thigh, "I tried to impress a girl by reciting Dante—but I got so nervous, I vomited on her kitten." Sierra's gasp melts into giggles, and he grins, victorious. "Worth the price?"

The scent of his cologne—bergamot and something smokier, like incense from the chapel—wraps around her as he plucks her phone from her hands. His fingers are warm when they graze hers. "Let me," he murmurs, turning the camera toward them. The screen captures his profile, all sharp angles and amused crinkles at the corners of his eyes, before he surprises her by pressing a kiss to her temple. The click of the shutter sounds impossibly loud.

"You're trouble," Sierra accuses, but she's already reaching for his wrist. "I was actually about to head to this nice little restaurant on Serbio Street—". Rowan gently interrupts with a smile, "I know exactly what restaurant you're talking about. I'll walk you." They begin their walk to the restaurant—Sierra relishing the way Rowan’s fingers twitch toward hers without committing, an electric game of restraint. The cobblestones beneath them glow amber in the fading light, warm against her sandals.

At the restaurant, Rowan pulls out her chair with effortless charm, his fingertips skimming the small of her back as she sits. The waiter recognizes him immediately—bringing over a bottle of Brunello without asking—and Sierra raises an eyebrow. "Something you want to tell me?" Rowan pours the wine slowly, the dark liquid catching the candlelight. "Just a local celebrity," he deadpans, then leans in. "I own the place." The confession lingers between them, mingling with the scent of rosemary and seared scallops drifting from the kitchen.

Halfway through shared plates of truffle risotto—Sierra’s fork stealing bites from Rowan’s side—he traces the rim of his glass and asks, "Why Italy again?" The question catches her off guard. She studies the way his shirt collar lays against his tanned skin before answering. "I was born here," she says, swirling her wine. "But I left chasing something bigger. Turns out, bigger isn’t always better." Rowan’s gaze darkens with understanding, and he murmurs a proverb in Italian—something about roots and wings—that makes her toes curl against the tiles.

A chorus of shouts erupts from the kitchen, followed by the clatter of dropped pans. Rowan excuses himself with an exasperated chuckle—"My chef’s temper is part of the ambience"—and disappears through the swinging doors. Alone, Sierra traces the condensation on her wineglass, realizing she hasn’t checked her phone in hours. The thought feels like rebellion. When Rowan returns, smelling of garlic and apology, he finds her barefoot under the table, her sandals discarded beneath her chair. "You’re staying," he observes, not a question, as he refills her glass to the brim.

Later, on the shore of the beach as the sun is setting, Sierra presses her toes into the cool sand, watching Rowan peel off his shirt with the unhurried ease of a man accustomed to being watched. The sea laps at their ankles, and she lets the silk shawl slip from her shoulders deliberately—his sharp intake of breath is worth the goosebumps rising on her skin.

Dinner had bled into cocktail-soaked confessions under the restaurant’s twinkling fairy lights—Rowan admitting he has intentions only with consent and Sierra laughing as she confessed her weakness for older men who knew how to cook. Now, under a sky streaked with lavender and gold, Rowan’s fingers peeling her sandals off while they watch the stars. "You really know how to treat a lady, Rowan. I've enjoyed today." Sierra murmurs, her voice rough with wine and something hungrier. He only hums in response, sliding his hand up her calf with deliberate slowness, his calloused thumb tracing circles that make her shiver despite the balmy air.

When he finally kisses her—just as the moon rises over the water—his mouth tastes of salt and the dark chocolate they’d shared for dessert. His beard scrapes her chin in a way that sends heat pooling low in her stomach, and she grips his shoulders, nails digging into linen. "Go find a blanket. I can't wait…" she murmurs against his lips—but Rowan pulls back just enough to study her face, his thumb brushing the mole beneath her eye. "Patience, principessa," he teases, his voice rough as he reaches for his discarded shirt and pulls out a soft wool blanket, shaking it open with a flourish.

The sand shifts beneath them as they sink onto the blanket, Rowan’s hands mapping her bare waist beneath her sundress with a reverence that makes her breath hitch. Laughter drifts from a distant beach club, mixing with the rhythmic crash of waves—until Rowan’s teeth graze her earlobe, and suddenly all she hears is her own pulse. She arches against him, her silk dress riding up her thighs as his palm slides higher, fingertips tracing the lace edge of her bikini bottoms.

"Always so prepared," she gasps when he pulls a condom from his wallet, the foil glinting in the moonlight like a promise. Rowan grins against her throat—his laugh vibrating through her ribs—before nipping at the delicate skin where her pulse thrums wildest. The scent of his cologne mixes with sea salt and the faint musk of their shared arousal, an intoxicating blend that makes her clutch the blanket beneath her fingers.

She kisses from his earlobe to his pulse, deliberately leaving marks on his skin—half-hidden by the collar, proof she doesn’t care if anyone sees. Rowan groans, tangling his fingers in her hair as she bites down just above his collarbone, his hips pressing into hers with urgent heat. The sand shifts beneath them, grains sticking to her bare legs, the friction deliciously rough against the softness of the blanket.

The condom wrapper tears between his teeth, the sound sharp against the muffled waves, and Sierra watches with parted lips as he begins undressing her—slowly, deliberately—pulling her sundress up over her hips inch by inch until the night air kisses her bare thighs. His beard burns against the inside of her knee, his chuckle vibrating through her when she gasps, fingers twisting in his hair. "Rowan—" she warns, but her voice breaks as his tongue traces higher, her bikini bottoms now the only barrier left between them. "Let's get under the blanket first…" she whispers, suddenly aware of distant voices carried on the wind—tourists? Locals?

Rowan nods, lifting the blanket with one hand while the other guides her beneath it—his body pressing her into the sand with delicious weight as the fabric settles over them like a private canopy. The sudden darkness heightens every sensation—the scratch of his chest hair against her nipples, the way his thigh slots between hers with possessive intent—until Sierra forgets about anything beyond the heat of his mouth on hers and the slow, teasing drag of his fingers beneath her bikini. She gasps when he finally slips inside her, her back arching off the blanket as pleasure licks up her spine, her thighs trembling around his hips. "God—you feel—" she manages before he silences her with a kiss, his rhythm deliberate, each thrust deeper than the last.

The distant crash of waves becomes a metronome to their ragged breathing, their sweat-slicked bodies moving in tandem beneath the woolen cocoon. Sierra claws at Rowan's back, her moans muffled against his shoulder as he palms her ass, lifting her slightly to angle himself deeper—each movement precise, calculated to unravel her. When his thumb finds her clit, circling in time with his hips, she bites down on his collarbone to stifle a cry, her orgasm cresting like a wave pulled taut before it breaks. Rowan groans her name, his own release shuddering through him moments later, his forehead pressed to hers as they both gasp for air in the shared heat beneath the blanket.

Back in her resort room, they're snuggling in a warm bath near the balcony while he kisses and massages her feet. Sierra buries her toes in the bubbles with a delighted sigh, watching Rowan’s hands—still damp from the ocean—work circles into her arches. The scent of jasmine bath salts mingles with the lingering saltwater on their skin, and when he nibbles playfully at her big toe, she kicks water at him, laughing as droplets catch in his silver stubble. "You're ridiculous," she murmurs, but her toes curl around his wrist, keeping him close.

The balcony doors stand open, letting in the distant clatter of late-night diners and the rhythmic pulse of the tide—sounds that fade when Rowan lifts her foot to his lips, pressing a kiss to the arch that makes her breath hitch. Then suddenly—he picks her up bridal style, walking her to the bed where a towel lays. He lays her down softly, sinking beside her with a groan that’s half-exhaustion, half-satisfaction. Sierra rolls onto her side, tracing the salt-dried lines of his collarbone with her tongue, savoring the way his pulse jumps beneath her mouth. "Tell me something true," she murmurs against his skin, her fingers toying with the silver chain around his neck. The pendant—a tiny cornicello charm—feels warm between her fingertips.

Rowan exhales through his nose, his fingers threading lazily through her damp hair as he considers her request. "True?" His thumb traces the shell of her ear before he leans in, his voice a whisper against her temple. "I knew you’d be trouble the moment I saw you laughing at that fountain. But I followed you anyway." Sierra grins, nipping at his jaw in retaliation, her teeth scraping over his beard. "Liar. You just wanted to steal my phone for that cheesy kiss photo."

Next thing we know, Rowan's kissing on Sierra's neck—slow, wet kisses—while his fingers trail down her spine, making her shiver despite the warmth of the room. She arches into him, her laughter fading into a soft moan as his teeth graze the sensitive spot behind her ear. "You're going to make me late for my morning tour," she breathes, though her hands are already pulling him closer, nails dragging lightly down his back. Rowan chuckles against her skin, his voice rough with amusement. "What's the point of Italy if you're on a schedule?"

He grabs another condom from his wallet—how many does this man carry?—and rolls it on with practiced ease, his eyes never leaving hers as he nudges her thighs wider. Sierra hooks her ankles behind his hips, her breath hitching when he enters her in one slow, deliberate thrust. The bedframe rattles against the wall in time with their movements, the rhythmic creaking mingling with the distant clatter of silverware from the restaurant below. When Rowan’s thumb finds her clit, circling just shy of the pressure she needs, she digs her heel into his ass in retaliation, earning a growl that vibrates through her ribs.

Next position is him tugging her hair as he thrusts from the back—slow at first, savoring the way her fingers claw at the sheets—then rougher, deeper, until Sierra's gasps dissolve into incoherent Italian curses that make Rowan chuckle darkly against her shoulder. The slap of skin on skin echoes off the terracotta walls, mingling with the scent of sweat and jasmine lingering in their damp hair. When Sierra reaches back to grip his thigh, her nails biting crescent moons into his skin, Rowan murmurs, "You're greedy tonight," before flipping her onto her back with a careful force that sends her curls fanning across the pillow.

He holds her legs over his shoulders, his securing her thighs as he drives into her at an angle that makes her see stars. Sierra’s fingers twist in the sheets, her back arching off the mattress—his name spills from her lips in a broken chant, syllables lost between ragged breaths. The balcony doors tremble with each thrust, the sea breeze carrying the scent of their mingled sweat and the faint trace of Rowan’s cologne still clinging to his skin. When his thumb presses hard against her clit, her climax crashes over her like a rogue wave—her vision whites out, her thighs clamping around his waist as she convulses beneath him.

Rowan follows moments later, his groan muffled against her neck as he spills inside the condom, his hips stuttering against hers. He collapses beside her, his chest heaving, one arm slung possessively over her waist. Sierra traces lazy circles on his damp sternum, her own heartbeat still erratic, her skin humming with spent pleasure. The distant chime of a church bell drifts through the open balcony—midnight—but neither of them moves, the stickiness between her thighs and the sand still gritty beneath the sheets anchoring them in the moment.