Chapter 4 Spilled Coffee and Shaky Hands

Part 1 – Tomorrow Arrives

Tomorrow came wrapped in the kind of light that makes the whole of Trastevere look newly painted. The air smelled of wet stone and roasted beans; somewhere a street musician tuned his guitar with slow, lazy chords.

Liam reached Caffè Rosati before the rush, sketchbook under his arm, rehearsing half a dozen versions of Would you like to sit with me? None of them sounded natural. By the time he stepped inside, the words had dissolved like sugar in hot espresso.

And then Emma appeared.

Her hair was loose today, brushing her shoulders; the soft blue of her dress matched the early sky. When she smiled in greeting, something in him steadied.

"You beat me again," she said.

"I had to. It's the only way I get to see that look of defeat on your face."

She laughed, low and warm. "A terrible motive, Mr Bennett."

He liked the sound of his name from her lips far more than he should have.

The line moved quickly. The barista didn't even ask anymore: un espresso per lui, un cappuccino per lei. When their cups clinked onto the counter, Liam reached for the sugar jar, still watching Emma as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

It happened in a blink his elbow caught hers, the jar tipped, a small avalanche of white crystals spilling across the counter and onto her sleeve.

"Oh! I'm so sorry," he blurted, grabbing a napkin.

Emma laughed, startled but unoffended. "It's only sugar. You could have aimed for the coffee make it a real disaster."

He was already dabbing at her arm, flustered. "If I'd known sabotage worked this well, I'd have tried it sooner."

Their eyes met over the napkin. For a beat, the world outside the clang of a tram, the chatter of Italian voices faded into a soft hum.

"It's fine," she said, still smiling. "Really."

He hesitated, then set the napkin down. "Maybe I should make it up to you. Sit with me?"

For a second she just looked at him, weighing the invitation. Then she nodded. "All right. But you're buying next time."

"Deal."

They carried their drinks to a small table by the window, one barely large enough for two cups and his sketchbook. Sunlight pooled over the marble surface, turning their coffee into tiny mirrors.

He opened the book without thinking. "I was trying to sketch the piazza again," he said. "But I can't get the proportions right."

"Maybe because you keep looking at the wrong thing," she said.

"What's the right thing?"

She pointed through the glass. "The way the pigeons circle the fountain before landing. They make the shape of an ellipse, not a circle."

He glanced out, surprised. "You really do notice everything."

"I translate for a living," she reminded him. "Words, gestures... sometimes birds."

Liam laughed softly. "You're dangerous, Emma Hart. You make ordinary things sound like poetry."

She took a sip of her cappuccino, eyes on the street. "Maybe Rome helps."

He followed her gaze. Outside, the light shifted again, golden and endless, wrapping itself around the fountain, the street, the two of them. And for the first time since arriving in the city, Liam felt completely, quietly at home.

Part 2 – The Table by the Window

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. The café filled with the usual symphony of morning: porcelain cups meeting saucers, the hiss of steam, a burst of laughter from a group of students nearby. Outside, sunlight spilled across the cobblestones, catching in the fountain like liquid glass.

Emma traced the rim of her cup with one finger. "You said yesterday you weren't sure if Rome feels like home," she said at last. "Why did you come here?"

Liam smiled faintly, leaning back in his chair. "That's a long story."

"We've got coffee," she said.

He laughed softly. "Fair enough."

He hesitated before continuing, eyes drifting toward the street. "After university, I took a job with a big architecture firm in London. It was supposed to be everything I wanted good money, big projects, skyline dreams. But..." He exhaled, the words tumbling out almost reluctantly. "Somewhere along the way, I stopped sketching for myself. I forgot what I loved about it. Rome was supposed to fix that. Just a few months here, to breathe again."

"Did it work?" she asked quietly.

He considered. "I'm still figuring that out. I think I draw better when I don't try so hard to prove anything."

Emma nodded, her eyes soft. "Sometimes you have to lose the noise to find your own voice again."

He smiled, liking the way she phrased it. "And you? What brought you here?"

Her gaze drifted to the window, where two pigeons were bickering over a crust of bread. "Work, mostly. I was offered a translation contract with a small publisher in Trastevere. Italian poetry into English Neruda, Montale, some modern voices. I thought it would be a dream. And it is, in many ways." She paused, then added, "But it's also lonely, sometimes. Living in a city this beautiful without anyone to share it with feels a bit like listening to a song and never singing along."

Liam studied her quietly, her profile softened by the sunlight. "That's a beautiful way to put loneliness," he said.

"I suppose it's my job to make things sound better than they are," she replied with a small smile.

"I don't think you're doing that," he said gently. "I think you're telling the truth."

Her breath caught just slightly at that. There was no teasing in his tone, no casual charm just quiet sincerity.

For a moment, neither moved. The city continued its rhythm around them: a moped zipping past, the distant toll of church bells, the scent of espresso thick in the air. It was one of those rare pauses that didn't feel empty but full, full of things unsaid, of possibilities waiting.

Emma finally smiled again, breaking the spell. "So," she said lightly, "we're two foreigners hiding from our real lives. That's romantic, in a tragic kind of way."

"Tragic?" Liam asked. "I was going for mysterious."

"You'd need darker sunglasses for that."

He chuckled. "Noted."

They lingered long after their cups were empty, neither quite willing to end the morning. When they finally stood, Emma reached for her bag. "Same time tomorrow?"

Liam hesitated not from doubt, but because it felt like a promise, something that would matter later. "Same time," he said.

They stepped out into the light together, the air warm and bright, the cobblestones gleaming after a brief drizzle. The city seemed to open before them like a page waiting to be written.