The note arrived slipped under her hostel door—cream paper, Leo's scrawled handwriting: Dinner? 8pm. Via della Lungaretta. No cameras, no blog posts. Just food.
Juno held the paper, debating. Her journal lay open beside her, yesterday's entry still raw: Not every ruin needs rebuilding. Some just need to be acknowledged. But acknowledgment was one thing. Sitting across from him again was another.
She dressed anyway—her favorite flowing skirt, the vintage tee that made her feel brave. If she was going to do this, she'd do it as herself.
The trattoria nestled between ancient buildings like a secret, its tables spilling onto cobblestones beneath strings of amber lights. Vines climbed the walls, heavy with the evening's warmth. Juno spotted Leo immediately—he'd claimed a corner table, two glasses of wine already poured but untouched.
He stood when he saw her, uncertain. No easy smile, no casual lean against the wall. Just Leo, exposed in the candlelight.
"Thanks for coming," he said as she sat.
"I figured it's easier than ghosting you across another continent." The words came out sharper than intended, but Leo's mouth twitched—almost a smile.
"Fair point."
The waiter appeared, rattling off specials in rapid Italian. Leo responded fluently, ordering for both of them after a questioning glance at Juno. She nodded. Let him navigate this. She was still deciding whether to stay.
The wine helped. Or maybe it was the way Leo talked about everything except them—Max losing his shoe in Barcelona, the worst hostel bathroom in Paris, the café in Montmartre where Juno had spent three hours writing postcards she'd never send.
"You found that place?" Leo's eyebrows rose. "I looked for it after you mentioned it. Never could track it down."
"That's because I gave you the wrong street name."
"On purpose?"
"Some places are supposed to stay hidden."
Leo nodded, understanding. "I get that. There's this spot in Florence—my grandmother's favorite bench in Oltrarno. I've never written about it. Never even photographed it."
"Why not?"
"Because then it wouldn't be ours anymore."
The pasta arrived—simple cacio e pepe, the cheese still bubbling. They ate in comfortable silence, the earlier tension dissolving with each shared bite. This felt familiar. Not the fighting, but this—the ease between them when neither was performing.
"You hurt me," Juno said suddenly, her fork halfway to her mouth. "But I'm starting to realize I let you."
Leo set down his wine glass. "I wanted to show up. I just didn't know how. That's not your fault."
"Isn't it? I make everything complicated. I want grand gestures and perfect timing and—"
"You want to feel something real. That's not complicated. That's human."
The words hung between them, honest and undefended. Juno reached for her journal, tore out a corner page, and wrote quickly. She folded it once and slid it across the table.
Leo opened it: I still don't know what this is. But I'm not done finding out.
He looked up, something shifting in his expression. "Then let's keep walking."
Rome at night belonged to lovers and insomniacs. They wandered without destination, past fountains that caught streetlight like scattered stars, past cafés where couples leaned into each other over tiny tables. Scooters buzzed by, their headlights carving temporary paths through ancient streets.
"Rome's a rerun for me," Juno said as they paused beside the Tiber. The water moved dark and quiet below them. "I came here after college, thinking it would give me answers."
"And now?"
"Now I think the answers don't matter as much as the questions I'm finally asking."
Leo turned to study her profile. "What questions?"
"Whether I'm brave enough to want something without knowing how it ends. Whether staying still long enough to find out counts as settling or growing up."
"And?"
"Still figuring it out."
They walked along the river, the city spreading golden around them. Couples passed, speaking in low voices. A street musician played violin near a bridge, his case open for coins.
"I'm scared I'll screw this up," Leo said suddenly.
"You will. So will I. That's the point."
She leaned into his shoulder—not romance, just closeness. He smelled like cigarettes and cologne and something indefinably him. For the first time in days, her chest didn't feel tight.
They reached her hostel too soon. The entrance loomed before them, marking the end of something fragile and new.
"I'm not asking to come in," Leo said.
"Good. I'm not ready to say yes."
He nodded, hands in his pockets. "But this is something, right?"
"It could be."
Leo stepped closer, brushed a strand of hair from her face, and kissed her temple—gentle, undemanding, real. Not the desperate kiss from Barcelona or the careful distance of their fight. Just present.
"Goodnight, Juno Sinclair."
She watched him walk away under the hanging streetlamps, his figure dissolving into Rome's eternal shadows. Then she climbed the hostel stairs, each step lighter than the last.
In her small room, Juno opened her journal to a fresh page and wrote: Truce, not conclusion. Beginning, not reset. She tore out the page, folded it like a postcard, and tucked it into her travel bag beside tickets and maps and all the other evidence of her journey.
Tomorrow would bring new questions, new possibilities. But tonight, she'd said yes to something uncertain and found it didn't terrify her. Maybe the truth wasn't found in grand gestures after all. Maybe it lived in the quiet yes you gave someone after they'd already heard your no.
Outside her window, Rome hummed its ancient song—patient, eternal, full of stories still being written. Juno closed her eyes and let herself become part of it, one honest word at a time.