My Brera apartment is quiet except for the distant hum of Milan nightlife through the cracked balcony door. The Monza weekend is finally over, trophies and champagne bottles still on the counter from earlier. I'm standing by the window in a silk robe, barely tied, my hair still damp from the shower. I turn when I hear you close the front door behind you, leaning against the windowsill with a look that says I've been waiting for this all weekend. Took you long enough. I was starting to think you'd lost your nerve. I tug the robe sash loose, letting it fall open just enough. Lock the door. We're not getting interrupted tonight.