I was parked outside Building Eight clutching the professor’s business card like it was a tiny defibrillator. Rome was already warm; students streamed past, Italian fizzing like a fountain. I pretended I was “getting fresh air” and not quietly rehearsing the answer sheet Luisa had made me: why psychology, three smart questions, two safe jokes, zero blushing. I practiced it in the mirror last night. Twice. Okay—three times.
“I’ll confirm the entrance-exam schedule in Nine,” Luisa rattled, hugging a folder that looked weaponized. “I’ll walk you to Eight and then sprint.”
“Va bene. Meet later for study mode.”
She squeezed me—efficient, supportive, very Luisa. “You’ve got this.”
Then it was just me, my pulse, and a door.
Second floor. He was already there, arranging materials with the kind of precision rulers dream about. No sweater today: a pale shirt with tight cuffs, a dark, fitted blazer, a slim tie, polished shoes you could measure yourself in. When I stepped in, he lifted his eyes and gave me that economical, professional smile.
“Buongiorno, Isabella,” he greeted, crisp as a page turn. “On time. Bag on the chair beside you.”
I sat. My knees wanted to dance; my brain wanted to pass an exam about not dancing.
“Tell me what you’ve read and what interests you,” he prompted, taking the seat across from me. His voice has metronome energy.
My cheat sheet did a curtsy. “Intro to developmental, some methodology,” I recited—and, okay, my real reason, “and… trauma. I’m interested in how people recover from hard things.”
“Why trauma?” he inquired, pen poised, not eyes.
“Family history,” I swallowed. “I want to understand how it shapes people.”
He inclined, not like a man, like a clinician checking vitals. “Personal motive often fuels the best work,” he observed. “Questions on the material?”
“What was your dissertation?” I ventured; my tone wobbled flirty around the edges.
“Manipulation as an Act of Attachment,” he replied evenly. “How love borrows the language of control. People call it connection, but most of the time it’s just dependency with good lighting. We study the patterns that keep bringing us back to the same people, no matter how much it hurts.”
“I’d read that,” I blurted, then softened it with a grin. “If you recommend a beginner’s tour, not the roller coaster.”
He clicked his pen shut—approval-adjacent. I peppered him—courses, exam structure, lab standards. He answered cleanly, sometimes briskly, no showy condescension.
Twice he stood beside me to point at a notation in my notebook; he smelled faintly like something fresh—rain that hasn’t started yet. I leaned in a hair closer than necessary, testing gravity; he straightened a cuff and stepped back the exact width of a boundary.
I wrote diligently, and also watched his hands—long, precise—and imagined, very grown-up, being that sure of my own. Ridiculous. And possibly hazardous.
“You’re keeping pace,” he concluded. “Better than a few postgrads.”
“Grazie,” I beamed, trying not to glow like a streetlamp. “Let me treat you to an espresso,” I offered, airy, like I wasn’t inviting the moon to coffee.
“Espresso consolidates learning,” he allowed. “Five minutes.”
We stepped into the courtyard. Students greeted him—
“Buongiorno, Professore!” Nods, handshakes. He accepted attention the way you sign for a package: part of the job. And yes, he knew exactly how he landed in space.
At a tiny bar near the piazza, the barista slid him two espressos on sight. He stirred sugar with the unhurried accuracy of a surgeon.
“Questions?” he prompted.
“The material made sense,” I fibbed by twenty percent. My “understanding” was wearing heels. “I’m… nervous about the exams.”
“Fear is normal. Panic is wasteful,” he assessed. “Northern accent?”
“Genoa. Vineyard,” I answered, then tipped my chin. “Does that make me too provincial for your lab, Dottore?” I teased, eyes bright.
“That explains the restraint,” he countered—small smile. “You’re not the typical applicant.”
“I’m nineteen,” I confessed, too fast; then, softer, “but I learn quickly.”
“All the more unusual,” he said. “You’re… more deliberate than most.”
“Deliberate” curled around me like a blanket. Dangerous blanket. I dared a step: “If I do well, may I call you Luca in emails?” Flirt, feather-light.
He set the spoon down. “Dottor Ferraro will suffice,” he corrected—polite, absolute. Cold professionalism slid between us like glass, and somehow that made heat spark under my skin.
We finished and headed back. Bells rang—beautiful, unsentimental.
“Same time tomorrow?” I ventured with careful brightness.
“Yes,” he affirmed, already turning. The greetings collected around him again, a formal little tide as he moved through the hall. I watched him go for a breath too long, then remembered I was not a marble statue but a future top student. Wanting what stayed cool made me want it more. I sprinted for the dorm. I had Luisa to debrief.
She’d already laid out sandwiches and color-coded notes. One pencil wore a tiny flag that said “TRICK QUESTIONS.” I love this nerd with my whole overstimulated heart.
“Well?” she pressed, eyes sparking.
“He’s… interesting,” I hedged. “Exact. Smart. Keeps distance.” I twirled the card. “I may have… tested that distance.”
“Excellent,” she decreed, like I’d been offered a Nobel and a leash. “Sit. You draft the paragraph, we blitz the syllabus, and here—my ‘no-blunders’ phrasing list. Keywords highlighted. If you don’t own a term, paraphrase.”
“You’re my rented brain,” I groaned, hugging her over the paper mountain.
We worked until evening. I stayed honest: no rabbit holes, no fantasies (fine—minimum fantasies). When my wrist ached, I realized I was doodling vine curls in the margins. One curl felt like Matteo’s fingers coaxing a tendril; another like the professor’s straight, steady pen line. I erased, rewrote. The paragraph came out compact and clear, tragically low on lyricism (I’m proud and offended).
Night. Luisa slept, breathing like a metronome for my thoughts. My phone blinked: Matteo. A voice note. “Dimmi che va tutto bene. And… I miss you,” he murmured. I smiled at the ceiling so hard my cheeks hurt. And then—new mail: Ferraro@… Subject: “Tomorrow. Paragraph + one clarification.”
Two icons glowed side by side like windows in the dark. My heart stood between them.
I set the phone on my chest and whispered to the ceiling, “If this is an exam, Professore, I’ll answer. And you, Matteo—don’t copy off me…”
Beat.
“Or do. I’m generous.”
I laughed into the quiet—and I’m not sure it was a joke. Because I dreamed of both: one with pruning shears that never wound a vine, one with a question sharper than any blade.
And I woke with the strangest thought: what if my heart aces both tests—and then I have to choose not a professor and not a gardener… but myself?