Page 3 of Bad Men's Good Girl

"And the boy from Chicago? His luggage is in Munich. He’s crying near the statue of Dante."

"Give him my spare sweatshirt and tell him Dante went through hell with less than a carry-on. I’ll track the tags after the welcome lecture."

I duck under a low stone archway, my boots clicking against the medieval flags. This building was a convent once. Now, it’s a pressure cooker for nineteen-year-olds with fresh passports. I hit the stairs three at a time, intercepting a frantic housingcoordinator who looks ready to quit. She’s clutching a stack of missing lease agreements for the Via dei Servi apartments.

"I’ve got the digital copies on my cloud, Sofia. Breathe." I wink, and her shoulders drop an inch. "I’ll print them while the students are doing their walking tours. Buy yourself a cornetto. I’m buying."

I step into the main courtyard just as the heavy oak doors groan open. Sunlight floods the stone, catching the dust particles and the wide, terrified eyes of forty American students. I’m the fixer. The tour guide. The honorary older brother. The man who knows which pharmacy sells the good blister pads and which bars won't overcharge for a negroni.

"Welcome to the best mistake of your lives!" I call out, my voice booming against the frescoes.

The crowd shifts toward me like iron filings to a magnet. Parents corner me with questions about water filters; a girl in a North Carolina sweatshirt asks about the nearest ATM. I answer everyone, laughing at the right moments, projecting a brand of relentless, sun-drenched optimism that I can pilot in my sleep.

But as I hand out maps, a familiar, hollow ache settles behind my ribs. I’ve spent nearly a decade anchoring other people’s adventures. I build the nests, I patch the wings, and then I watch them fly home while I reset the clock for the next batch. I'm a permanent fixture in a temporary world.

"Amos, what’s next?" a student asks, leaning in.

"Next? We find you a home," I say, the easy smile sliding into place. "That's what I do."

The humidity clings to the courtyard, smelling of old stone and roasted coffee. I filter through a stack of housing assignments, my thumb flicking the corners as I scan the crowd for the stragglers. That’s when I see her.

Heaven help me.

She stands near a marble pillar, a splash of soft fabric and golden highlights against the gray masonry. She’s tall enough to be noticed but keeps her shoulders tucked, a practiced posture of someone trying to take up the least amount of space possible. She’s wearing a sundress that looks like it belongs in a postcard, and she’s smiling—a bright, brave expression intended to fool the world.

It doesn’t fool me.

She’s strangling the strap of her leather bag until her knuckles turn white. Her eyes dart from the frescoes to the stairs, then back to her phone, searching for a landmark that isn't there. She has the look of a girl who jumped off a cliff and is just now realizing she forgot the parachute. It’s a specific brand of beautiful, terrified chaos.

I look back at the registration tables. The "Group A" line for apartment keys is a snarl of luggage and loud voices. I spot her drifting toward it, shoulders squared with a sudden, desperate resolve. She steps behind a tall kid from Syracuse, looking relieved to finally have a destination.

"Unless you're planning on living with four guys from the rugby team in a flat above a leather shop, you might be in the wrong place," I say, stepping into her path.

She jumps, her bag sliding down her arm. Her eyes lock onto mine, shifting from green to a panicked gold. "Is this not the line for... everything?"

"In Italy, there is never a line for everything. Life is a strategic series of very specific, very disorganized queues." I take the folder from her shaking hand, my fingers brushing hers. Cold as ice. "Baleigh Butler. North Carolina?"

"Is the accent that obvious?" She tries for a laugh, but it’s brittle.

"Only when you say 'everything'." I grin, leaning back against a stone plinth to keep her from bolting. "You’re in the studenthousing line. Staff and coordinators check in at the quiet table back there, under the lemon tree. It’s significantly less likely to involve a shared bunk bed."

"Oh. Right. Staff." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her cheeks flushing a soft pink. "I’m the assistant. Or I’m supposed to be. Currently, I’m just a woman who almost moved into a frat house."

"Could’ve been an interesting first day." I don’t hand the folder back yet. I like the way she gazes at me—not with the practiced adoration of the students, but with an open, startled curiosity. "I’m Amos. I’m the one who makes sure you don't actually end up in a ditch or a rugby flat. First time in Florence?"

"First time out of the States," she admits, the confession spilling out before she can catch it. She winces. "I mean—yes. Professional traveler. Very seasoned."

"Clearly. Your ability to pick the most chaotic line in the room is a pro-level move."

She narrows her eyes, a spark of heat replacing the nerves. "I was just testing the efficiency of your signage. It’s lacking, Amos."

I chuckle, the sound vibrating in my chest. Most people in her position are over-eager to please or paralyzed by the heat. She’s both, yet she still has enough bite to tease back.

"I'll make a note for the suggestion box," I say, finally offering the folder. "Come on, Carolina. Let's get you a key before you accidentally join the Italian Navy."

The morning moves in a blur of logistics and loud voices, but I keep finding excuses to glance over the heads of the crowd. Baleigh doesn’t hide in the corner with the other newcomers. I watch her square her shoulders and stride up to a group of sophomore boys, her hands gesturing wildly as she introduces herself. She stumbles over the name of the piazza we're visitinglater, her face blooming into that sunset-pink flush again, but she doesn't retreat.

Most of these kids arrive acting like they own the cobblestones, shouting into their phones about "vibes" and "authenticity." Baleigh is the opposite. During the safety briefing, she’s in the front row, pen flying across a notebook. When I mention the polite way to ask for a coffee, I see her lips moving, silently practicing theper favoreuntil her brow furrows in concentration. It isn't the easy confidence of a globetrotter; it’s the gritty, white-knuckled courage of someone who is terrified and doing it anyway. I find myself ignoring the dean of students just to see if she’ll manage to ask a question.