Page 122 of My Italian Love Affair

“Can’t have that.”

I glance back toward the door, my chest still a little tight from before.

“It just… it gets to you, you know?” I admit before I can stop myself. “I knew it would, but I guess I wasn’t expecting it to hitquiteso hard.”

For once, he doesn’t mock, doesn’t roll his eyes, doesn’t hit me with some sarcastic remark.

Instead, after a beat, he says, “itshouldhit hard.”

There’s a rare kind of sincerity in his voice.

Something soft and genuine that catches me off guard, and I blink, looking up at him.

“These kids deserve everything,” he continues. “And most of them have had to fight for scraps their whole lives. If that doesn’t get to you, you’re either heartless or too far removed to care.”

It’s the most honest thing I think I’ve ever heard him say, and the way he says it - like he actuallymeansit -

I simply don’t know what to do with that.

“I guess I just…” I hesitate, shaking my head, trying to push past the emotions still thick in my chest. “I just hate how performative it all is. The cameras, the photos, the ‘look how generous we are’ narrative. They’re children - not props for a good PR moment.”

Matteo lets out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his dark hair.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “It’s bullshit.”

I stare at him.

Again.

Whoisthis man, and where has he been hiding?

Because this is not the same Matteo Rossi who shut me down in that post-match interview, acting like I was a mosquito buzzing in his ear.

This is not the Matteo Rossi who, by all accounts, should beexactlythe kind of person who thrives off the cameras, who soaks up the attention like it’s his birthright.

And yet… here he is.

Casual, thoughtful, and - dare I think it - almostlikable.

Fuck. Am I having an existential crisis?!

“You’re being very un-Matteo-Rossi-like right now,” I say. “Should I be concerned?”

Matteo huffs out a laugh.

“Relax,giornalista.It’s not a permanent condition.”

“That’s a relief,” I deadpan. “I was about to check you for a fever.”

Matteo smirks but doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, studying me.

“You care a lot,” he says.

It’s not a question, and I hesitate as I narrow my eyes, unsure as to where he’s going with this or what he’s trying to imply.

“So?”

His gaze lingers on mine for a second longer than is probably necessary.

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