The night is hot and heavy, and the air is tainted with the scent of oranges and heavy rain, when Milo slips into the cocktail bar of the Palazzo Cordusio. They take a seat at the bar and, hidden behind the lush foliage of a tropical palm, observe the luxurious scene of their assignment. 

They are delighted by the golden glow that the warmly lit, faux-art-deco bar casts on their skin and their eyes glaze over the brilliant chandeliers. Hundreds of individual crystals flicker like flames above the tables. Their reflection of the light is as temperamental as the wind; a tiny inferno captured in glass. 

Matchmakers are not supposed to favour one job over another. Love is love, even when it is not meant to last forever. And yet, there is something so breathtakingly beautiful about a place like this. The dimmed hubbub of many voices, alluring glances stolen from across the room over the rim of one’s glass, the comfort of a smokey bourbon burning all the way down to your stomach where it stretches itself out and lays to rest… It all contributes to an unexpected warmth that settles under your skin. It lowers your defences and makes it easy to fall in love with -and in- bars like this. 

Milo closes their eyes and wraps themselves in a blanket of murmuring voices. Strands of speech glide through their mind and they evaluate the grain and texture of each voice; some are rough like ropes of hennep, others soft as silk. 

A high voice, clear as crystal, cuts through the crowd and their eyes flutter open. Ah yes, that must be their first target of the night. 

The woman is tall as a mountain, her skin white as a snowdrop. The inclination of her leg barely slips out of her slit chiffon dress and offers a tempting sight. She catches Milo’s gaze for a moment, a glint of mischief in her eyes. She is mesmerizing. And she knows it.

Jolyn’s enchanting laughter rings through the room, demanding attention. A song comes to mind, and though the remembrance is only a phonetic muscle memory, there is no doubt it was written for her. She is a social woman, Milo knows, and it will be a difficult task to get her alone with their second target, a man who has not yet arrived.

“Can I get you something to drink?” The barman asks, waking Milo from their spell with his heavy Milani accent. 

“Ah yes, could I have a Manhattan, please?” They answer, almost missing the moment their second target strolls in through the front door. But the aura of his presence is unmistakable. Milo peeks at him through the leaves and is temporarily stunned by his beauty. 

Thomas is a man who commands the room without meaning to. There is power in the set of his shoulders, supple muscles rippling under smooth, dark skin. A tailor-made jacket and shirt accentuate the cut of his waist, and his trousers flex against the mighty strides with which he moves through the bar. His outfit must have cost a fortune… Everyone looks cheap -even tacky- by comparison. Everyone except Jolyn, perhaps. 

There is a noble nonchalance to his conversation; he is a king entering his castle, greeting friends, foes and strangers alike. But Milo knows better than to be swayed by this public facade. Thomas’ eyes are pools of unencumbered hunger and each gesture is imbued with urgency. He is searching for something, but the question is if he knows what he is looking for. Or whom. 

“Excuse me? Your Manhattan.” Milo’s attention is drawn back to the bar when the barman places the drink before them.  

“Ah, yes, thank you,” they respond politely. 

They wrap their slender fingers around the cool stem of the cocktail glass and lift it to look through the inviting amber hue of the alcohol. They sigh. It has been ages since they last tasted a human concoction, let alone an alcoholic one. Even though they can perfectly well describe what happens when one drinks alcohol, their new human senses ache for the sensation. 

They remove the Maraschino cherry from the glass and tip the rim to their lips but then hesitate for a splinter of a second. Do not get distracted by human allures, their God-granted conscience whispers in their ear. Its voice sounds like their Alluno. 

But Milo knows something their student does not; it is impossible not to indulge a little if you have been as long in the field as they have. And so, to drive away any thought of total insubordination, one has to give themselves some leeway in interpreting the matchmakers’ doctrine. Fortunately, the great Lord up above is all too willing to turn a blind eye. 

In any case, Milo would first need to wait to see if Thomas and Jolyn would run into each other naturally. That is- without their interference. At first glance, Thomas and Jolyn are a perfectly adequate match so there is a real chance the case will solve itself. It surely would save Milo some trouble, so there is no need to rush. Nursing a drink whilst there is nothing to be done can hardly be counted as giving into temptation. 

Milo closes their eyes and tips their head back, taking a sip of their priceless indulgence. They savour the sweet tangy syrup of the vermouth as it sticks to their palate, then shiver when the whisky burns down their throat like ambrosia, comfortably warming their core. All that is left are the bitter notes at the back of their tongue but without that bitterness -they realise- the sweet would never have tasted so intense. The experience feels so incredibly succinct to the human experience. It never ceases to amaze them. 

When Milo opens their eyes, they finally notice the person who has settled on the empty stool to their right. Thomas’ gentle smile speaks of great amusement when his tumultuous eyes find Milo’s. "I'll have what he's having. He seems like he just tasted something heavenly,” he tells the barman. 

“They just tasted something heavenly- it’s they,” Milo replies icily. They avert their gaze in an attempt to hide their internal panic. Matchmakers are supposed to be ‘invisible’; so dreadfully ordinary that no self-absorbed human should show a sliver of interest in them! Thomas’ gaze -no matter how intense- should have fallen to the wayside like water hitting an umbrella!

Then again, Milo muses, a situation like this had occurred before. In a not-so-distant past (give or take a hundred years) a female flapper, who had been their target at the time, had taken a particular interest in them when they tried to set her up with an ordinarily pleasant, English gentleman. It had been enough to divert her attention with an underwhelming kiss and a push in the right direction. 

They expect something similar will do the trick when it comes to Thomas. Between a dull conversation with a reluctant partygoer like themselves, plenty of booze and meeting the love of his life, Thomas will likely not remember Milo at all the next morning. 

Thomas takes Milo’s silence as offence and the look in his eyes grows kinder when he looks them up and down. “My apologies, I should’ve known better than to assume. My name is Thomas Colombo, pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

He holds out his hand and, although they are hesitant, Milo is tempted to take it. Thomas’ grip is firm but not overpowering and the sensation of the rough calluses on his palms scraping against Milo’s soft fingertips sends sparks through their arm. At a bougie bar like this, it is disarming to find a hint of the genuine hard work it may have taken someone to get here. The realisation stokes the fire in their stomach and they quickly retrieve their hand. 

Milo’s gaze flicks upward. “I- I’m sorry, can you repeat?” They squeak apologetically, startled by their body’s reaction to Thomas’ touch. They mentally curse themselves out in a way that has them (once again) hoping that God is not watching. 

“I don’t think I’ve met -or seen- you before…” They tentatively add. Before their conscience can decide against it, they take another sip of their drink.  

Thomas looks puzzled but then his confusion makes way for an expression of great relief that opens up his entire face. “It’s Thomas Colombo… What’s your name, kid?” 

“Kid???” Milo almost sputters their Manhattan back into the cocktail glass. They cough their lungs out when they feel it burn in their throat. In their disguise, they are about as old as Thomas and, in reality, they are a centuries-old matchmaker to boot! Thomas could not be further from the truth. 

“You’ve got to be American… There’s no way, no one uses ‘kid’ anymore! What brings you to Milan?” Thomas’ easy smile broadens and for a moment, the rest of the room ceases to exist. 

Thomas shrugs. His words are intentional and cloaked in a coaxing velvet. “If you insist on roasting me, I would first like to know your name. Then you may ask me all you’d like.” When Milo looks into his eyes, they see his hunger has not been quenched. Far from it. 

Milo dryly swallows down the remainder of the bitters on the back of their tongue. Thomas is serious. This will complicate matters greatly. 

“My name is Milo, sir.” They weigh their words carefully, inspecting the effect they have on Thomas. “Just Milo.” 

“Alright, just Milo,” he laughs playfully. His teeth are distractingly perfect. He hooks his heels on the lower bar of his stool and rests his elbow on the cool marble of the open bar. “I completely understand, I would rather not be recognized by my full name in public either. But such is the life of a designer whose fashion brand is very unfortunately named ‘Colombo LA’. So to answer your question: I’m in Milan to discuss a new line with potential clients. I’m in this bar specifically because the paparazzi haven’t found me here yet.” 

A shiver travels down Milo’s spine. They redirect their gaze to Thomas’ suit to distract themselves from his sudden interest. They view his outfit with slight admiration. Even from across the dimly lit bar, they had noticed how well Thomas dressed himself. His suit was a piece of art, cut in a way that emphasized the best aspects of his silhouette. Milo should have expected nothing less from a designer. 

Now that Thomas knows their name, he will allow them to ask him any question they would like. That is what he said. Well, Milo wants to ask him this: Did you design your suit yourself? What is it made of? Is this how you like to dress every day? Would he allow Milo to bite into the enchanting, smooth skin of his collarbone peeking out from underneath his- 

Instead, what Milo says is this: “Hm, really? Can’t say I’ve heard of your company. But if you’re here in the capital of fashion to discuss a new line, you must be well-known. I unfortunately have to admit I’m not well-versed when it comes to the fashion industry.” 

Of course, Milo is -in fact- well-versed in the intricacies of the fashion industry. While it is incorrect to say that they are all-knowing like the Lord, they can dip their mind into the infinite well of knowledge. Milo always knows enough to complete their assignment, no matter how far-fetched, minute or grandiose their knowledge needs to be. 

Thomas sucks in a sharp breath and, for a moment, Milo is afraid they have bruised his ego. But then, Thomas treats them to his rich and royal laugh. 

“Oh Milo, you must have been living under a rock then!” He says it with such endearment that Milo barely registers they could interpret it as an insult. “That, or it’s a good reality check that I’m not as famous as I think I am.” 

“May I?” He asks, pointing to the cocktail cherry Milo had put aside for later. Milo nods, suddenly quite aware of how parched their throat has gotten. When did that happen? 

“Actually, I quite like that you don’t recognize me. It’s refreshing,” Thomas says as he lifts the cherry to his mouth. Its stem pulls taunt against his luscious lips before it snaps, the red a stark contrast to his dark skin. “So Milo, let me turn the question around: why have you come to the beautiful city of Milan? You don’t sound Italian to me either.” 

Milo takes another long sip of their drink. They lick the rim of their glass tentatively while trying to decide if their current lightheadedness is the cocktail’s fault or Thomas’. 

“My mother grew up in Milan,” they finally answer. “We try to visit every few months to check in with my grandparents -they’re lovely people, very lovely, they live in Cesano Boscone, south to here- but I have decided to stay longer to explore the city. 

My friends from uni are coming over in a few days for their spring break. I have not gotten the chance to explore this part of the country since high school! I couldn’t walk away from the opportunity to enjoy the most beautiful city on earth for a while longer. The art, the food, the music, I love it all!” 

Thomas drinks up every word, eyes tender with recognition. When Milo has finished their story, he leans forward conspiratorily. “Can I tell you a secret?” He whispers. Milo nods once more, swallowing their nerves. 

“Personally,” Thomas whispers warmly, “I find that the beauty of a city is defined by its people. Meeting you has convinced me that Milan may indeed be the most beautiful city on earth.” 

His burning gaze cuts through to Milo’s soul and somehow, they feel seen. Thomas does not see the life Milo has built around themselves for the assignment but the shapeless entity underneath. Something unfurls in their chest. Milo imagines it to be a carpet of lush ferns, rolling out to cushion the steps of a man who has walked right into their heart.