Italia Veneziano, if all things were considered, was not one to be usually associated with any of the Slavic nations, particularly those who were closest to Russia. Sure, he had to interact with Russia during G8 meetings, but those occasions were often tinged with economic and political matters rather than associating with the man personally. Regardless, Italia Veneziano thought that most of his relations were on mild terms with most of Russia's likeminded brethren.

Most of them.

Belarus was not one of those whom Veneziano had an amicable relation.

You see, Belarus was a force of nature quite like General Winter on a rampage. Although she looked and played the part of a dainty young woman in front of average humans, she was an uncouth, lewd, foul-mouthed nation who had allegedly once punched America in the face without a scratch or a bruise.

Allegedly.

Nonetheless, the personification of the northern half of Italy found himself looking at the group of Slavic countries in vaguely hidden interest. To most, he would have appeared to be in blissful contemplation, but to his older brother, he knew that something was definitely stirring within Veneziano.

Why was he so interested in the Slavs?

With a look of growing apprehension, Romano roughly jabbed a finger into his brother's side, causing a grunt of pain to leave the younger nation.

"Dio mio, fratello," Veneziano muttered as he rubbed his side. Although the jab was hardly any more painful than a bee sting, the Italian milked his pain for all his worth. If given more time, he would have started crying, but his brother raised an eyebrow, as if challenging him to try and seek out his sympathy. He instantly changed tactics. "The meeting hasn't started, has it?"

Romano shook his head.

"I could care less about the meeting, I'm just wondering why you're looking at Russia and his sisters." Romano paused, as if to ponder further on this strange occurrence. Russian and Italian relations were quite all right, nothing interesting there, so why would—a sudden sort of realization chilled his bones. "Wait...you're looking at his sisters, aren't you?"

Veneziano cheerily laughed. How amusing! If Russia had gotten wind that someone who wasn't close to his family was looking at his most favorite people in the world, then all hell would break loose. Despite his optimistic demeanor, his brother angrily shushed him—was he trying to attract attention from those weird Eastern Europeans?

Romano abruptly turned his brother around so that both of their back faced the Slavic siblings. "The hell is wrong with you, Veneziano? Don't go messing around with those damn potato eaters!"

"But you let me mess around with Germany."

"Don't remind me." Romano smacked his little brother's shoulder. "And don't say it like that you cheeky bastard!"

Veneziano rubbed his shoulder as he looked up at his brother in mischievous curiosity.

"Have you ever noticed that Belarus is really cute?"

If Romano had the patience and strength to question his little brother's mindless pondering, he would have socked him in the face a million times over. As it were, the meeting was held at an ungodly hour and all he could show for it was a mounting headache and a little brother who was probably suicidal. Instead of resorting to violence, Romano did the next best thing.

"Have you ever noticed that whenever you drink America's coffee, you lose a fraction of whatever available brain cells you still have?" Offended, Veneziano was about to retort with a jab of his own to mock Romano's intelligence, but his older brother waved him off. "Hit on cute girls if you want; I saw Belgium and Monaco talking shit about France a few minutes ago."

Veneziano, the little bastard, shook his head at his brother's thinly veiled attempt at redirection.

"I'm not planning on flirting with any of them today, actually. I just think that Belarus is cute. Is that such a crime?"

Romano pinched the bridge of his nose at such an idiotic question. It was over a century since their reunification, but why did it feel like he didn't know his brother anymore?

"When you place the country of Italia in line of direct fire from another powerful nation, yes, it does. If you get castrated, I am not paying for your hospital bills or sending some of Vaticano's exorcists to her house."

Pleased to know that his brother was going to leave him alone for now, North Italy resumed his people (Belarus) watching in peace.

Belarus was staring into space.

Again.

It was a bad habit, especially during wartime or when she was surrounded on all sides by other nations who may or may not have been enemies, but she was bored. There were only talks about the upcoming budget proposals, notes on the education system, etc. etc. It was all so boring and trivial that the stoic faced nation found herself blinking the sleep out of her eyes.

Once.

Twice.

Thri—

As she was about to blink for the third time, she found herself staring into the clear brown eyes of a man who couldn't have been much older than her. Confused, she wiped the backs of her hands against her eyes before looking again. Fortunately for her, it appeared that she was probably mistaken. The young man from before had fucked off to the edges of the earth after having her icy cold stare meet him.

Good.

Belarus was about to stare off into space again—it was a past time that no one ever understood—but there was a presence behind her that completely caught her off guard.

"Ciao, Signora Bielorussia! You're looking very pre—"

She whirled upon him with the force of a hurricane.

"Eat my dick and die."

After his "chance" encounter with the Belarusian, North Italy found himself thinking about her incessantly. It wasn't unusual for him to think about pretty women, but it was highly improbable for him to think about them for too long. He was a flirt, a temporary romantic. Thinking too long about countries usually landed in disaster (war, alliances that were all too temporary, and centuries of hard feelings) and falling for humans—while not against any rules—was heavily considered a taboo.

Romances of a long-term nature were usually catastrophes.

And Veneziano happened to not like catastrophes.

However, he was also getting ahead of himself. It was true, he found himself drawn to the cold, wintry nation. Although she was scary, coarse, and completely "batshit crazy", as said by America, she was also "a closet sweetheart"…also said by America. And despite what Romano thought of the loudmouthed blond, Romano usually deferred to America's opinions as trivial as his opinions on fellow Nations. Therefore, Veneziano had to take his word for it!

All he had to do was come up with a good reason to talk to her and he had just the thing…

Immediately after the World Meeting had finished, the Italian found himself sitting directly beside an oblivious Belarusian. Since the Italian had yet to be attacked or threatened, he merely observed her before placing a cup of steaming coffee in front of the nation.

No reaction.

Huh. One would think that a country who was known to have knives stuck up her sleeves would be a lot more vigilant concerning her surroundings, but it seemed that she was completely out of it. Perhaps it was because the meeting was so boring? Or maybe he was just that unobtrusive?

Was he like a ninja now?!

He would have to try out his newfound skills on Japan later, but for now—

"Ciao, Signorina Bielorussia! I have a good cup of coffee! By me! Italia!" Underneath his breath, he muttered, "Not that American watered down crap..."

Unimpressed (but deep down inside, the woman tried her hardest not to jolt from the sudden intrusion because how did the loudmouthed Italian actually sneak up on her?), Belarus placed a dainty little finger atop the rim of the mug of coffee. Then, quite deliberately, she flashed her eyes at the brown-eyed man. For a moment, Veneziano feared that he would find himself with a new appendage stuck in his torso: one of Belarus' knives. However, his fears were unfounded when all the blonde did was simply blink at him.

Once.

Twice.

Thri—

"Why."

Deflating with relief, the Italian sunk down into a chair beside the woman before answering, "B-because good coffee is good for the soul! It's rejuvenating and yummy and we can relax and talk, talk, talk—"

"I don't drink coffee."

Horrified by that admission, North Italy found himself shivering in dismay. Just...who didn't like coffee? Who didn't want to enjoy a good coffee and conversation? That was basically any Italian's lifeblood!

"Don't look at me like that. You should know better than to assume that everyone is like you."

That was true…but how could someone reject Italian coffee? It was good and invigorating and…just how—?

Belarus, not seeing the big deal about this, merely edged the mug of coffee in the Italian's general direction before organizing her notes back into a binder before settling in her chair and staring forward.

"Go away now. I'm busy."

"But you're not—"

"I'm ignoring your presence. Bye."

"Romano, my sweet older brother…my best friend in the entire universe…the wind beneath my wings…"

Fed up with his brother brown-nosing his way into his life, South Italy turned away from his notes to glare at his brother.

"Cut the bullshit, Veneziano. I'm trying to get shit done." The darker haired Nation pointed to his pile of ruffled papers and highlighters to let his brother know that, yes, he was completely serious and that he shouldn't be the one to carry the entire burden on his shoulders. "If this has anything to do with any of the damn potato eaters on the other side of the continent—"

"Belarus doesn't like me!"

Romano shrugged, unenthused at Veneziano's little tears that threatened to drip out of the corners of his eyes. Again. Veneziano was trying to milk his pouty innocence for all that it was worth.

"No shit. I don't like you either."

"Fratello!"

"Why do you sound so shocked? It shouldn't be news to you."

Veneziano retaliated by grabbing his brother by the waist and placing his head against his elder's chest. For a moment, both of the Italian personifications grappled with one another—one of them trying to smother the other with affection while the other would try to use brute force to get rid of his brother. Eventually, both of them landed on the ground with a muffled thud and curses.

"All right, what the hell do you want? If this is about the 'potato comment', I am not taking that back!" Romano grumbled as he dusted off his suit and righted the chair that had somehow fallen in the middle of their tussling. "And if this is about that woman, I'm already disowning you if—"

"But she's so cute!"

Romano sighed. He may have been a ladies' man—prided himself on that fact—but there was simply no way he was going to idly stand by and watch his little brother get decimated by one of the Slavic nations. Italian and Belarusian relations were far from hostile, but they weren't the most warm and reciprocating, either.

"Just…" Romano pursed his lips then shrugged. His brother was a fool, but he was smart and conniving when he wanted to be. Memories of the Most Serene Republic flooded his conscience before Romano shoved those thoughts away. He wanted to reassure himself that Veneziano could handle this unfortunate bout of romantic feelings, not scare himself! "Don't bring her back to your house after the first date."

"Fratello!" Veneziano shrieked in disgust. "I am a gentleman! A proud Italian! How dare—"

"Yeah, yeah, have you tried asking her out to talk or something?"

"I gave her our special coffee!"

"Yeah." Romano nodded to himself sagely. "That shit always works."

Belarus eyed the cup of coffee that was settled gently on the table in front of her. It was steaming, a curious shade of tanned cream, and it was sitting atop her paperwork as if it belonged there. Knowing most cups of steamed beverages did not have the urge to walk up and stake a claim on her territory, the Belarusian quickly scanned her surroundings, as if waiting for the culprit to jump from out of nowhere and ambush her.

…which would make coffee the trap.

The red herring.

The bait.

"Foolish," she muttered in her own tongue. Without even bothering to think more about the subject, she quickly snapped a pair of black gloves onto her slender hands, retrieved the bait, and began to head over to the restroom so that she can properly dispose of…this. Whatever steaming thing was inside the cup.

Click, click, cli—

Her heels clacked along the wooden flooring, footsteps never faltering and her strides were well measured. Any and all nations who were present immediately moved out of her way, already too used to dealing with Russia's younger sister. Just when she was about to complete her mission of getting rid of whatever was inside that cup, she felt a hand grasp her wrist.

She may have been surprised, but she quickly plastered on an emotionless mask as she turned to look at—

"Sieńjor Italii." Her greeting was so cold and abrupt; most would have let go of her wrists, or at the very least, shuddered. To her utter befuddlement, she found that her wrists were being squeezed with passion. "What the hell."

"Signorina Bielorussia!" Italia Veneziano cried out. "What do you think you're doing! That's a good cup of coffee—"

This can't be happening.

Why, of all nations to have bothered her today, why did it have to be a country whose economy was in utter shambles and his government a mockery of what passed for efficiency? Why did it have to be Italy?

Why.

"Ah, so this smoldering, soulless piece of crap is yours. Here you go."

"B-but—!"

Back when Veneziano represented only the Republic of Venice, he had been more than acquainted with the idea of war, even excelled at it. He had protected his trade and defended the Adriatic from whatever invaders (usually the Ottomans) decided to come and make a mess of his empire. It was an exercise of what most nations were supposed to do when maintaining power; to do so otherwise either meant that you had a strategic high ground or you were a coward.

Right now, Veneziano didn't want to be a coward.

Not yet, anyway.

He was going to whine and act like a big baby about it, though.

Romano, already swamped with paperwork and completely jaded when it came to helping with his brother over matters of nations and their relations (platonic, sexual, familial, no one really cared), tuned him out. Most of the time.

The rest of the time?

The rest of the time was spent gritting his teeth as his brother groaned on and on how a pretty bella like Signorina Bielorussia could be so cold as winter, but so hateful towards coffee—?

"Bastardo," Romano growled as his newly inked signature looked like a scrawled version of that failed Jesus recreation piece by that one artist. It was that bad. "Stop being so subtle and just go for it!"

"But I thought that colder nations like her would respond better towards the subtle!"

"Keep going like that and you'll end up like Lithuana." Romano began to count off with his fingers. "Alone, depressed, and with a lot of broken fingers." The older Italian brother looked at the younger nation with a look of amused contemplation. "Did you hold her hand yet?"

A muffled groan was more than enough answer for the Italian.

"Honestly," Romano murmured, "if you're going to be such a pussy about this, I might as well throw my hat into the ring as well."

Veneziano leaped up to his feet, his face contorted to the closest thing to a glare that he could muster without looking too mad.

His little brother grasped him by the lapels (wow, so handsy!), and with a hurt expression, said, "How could you even suggest a thing like that? What do you even mean?"

Romano shrugged him off.

"Don't be stupid. Besides, it's not stealing if you haven't even got her in the first place."

When Belarus looked up from her paperwork, it wasn't a cup of coffee that greeted her or a Northern Italian who looked way too curiously into her business. No. Oh no. It was something so much more worse.

It was the older brother.

Unlike his younger brother, Italia Romano didn't attend many of the meetings, preferring to keep the government and the finances at home because Veneziano was more than well suited to dealing with foreign relations. Because of that, Belarus didn't see, much less interact with the supposedly gruffer Italian. However, she had heard of conflicting accounts about the elder.

From the female nations, she heard that he was quite the flirtatious man with a heart of gold.

From the male nations, he was far stricter; his short temper could be comparable to that of England's hotheaded nature.

Belarus didn't know what to think.

In want for something to do to make sure she remained dominant in the conversation, she leaned back in her chair and folded her arms against her chest.

Such movements looked smooth and graceful, but she still felt her professional attire's restrictive garments restraining her body's full range of motion. Nevertheless, she made up for it with a piercing blank stare that often kept enemies at bay.

"Out with it, you sleazy ball sucker. Some of us have actual work to do."

The Southern Italian had a weird expression of his face. It looked like there was something burning in his eyes, something that had captured the platinum blonde's attention. There was some sort of fire lurking within the emerald depths…Wait! Belarus' mind stuttered to an awed halt. He had green eyes? That was…something new. And was he moving closer? Was she moving closer? Regardless, they were now in closer proximity to each other and—

"I would like to apologize on my brother's behalf; trust me, he's a gentleman when he actually acts as if he has a brain. If you want, bella ragazza, we could work on our international relations. It needs," here, his words ghosted over the skin of her slender hand, "some improving, no?"

"I…"

Her usually well-crafted composure fell to the wayside when his lips made contact with her inner wrist and…gods, that felt nice. So caught up in the heavenly sensation, she couldn't force her mouth to form coherent sentences, much less answer his proposal. Unfortunately, the Italian seemed to have some sort of translator in his head for her incoherent stuttering.

"Excellent choice, bella ragazza!" Romano praised. "Veneziano and I will be awaiting your attendance later tonight so we can discuss finances. I'll text you the directions later." With a wink that definitely did not melt the Belarusian's heart, the Southern Italian finally left her side of the table.

Which left Belarus all alone.

For a moment, all she could think to do was stare off into space before the reality of what happened punched her in the face and out of her dazed reverie.

"That…that ball sucking bastard!"

Belarus was not rude.

Well, not when it came down to formal negotiations and dinner parties. There was always a time and place for banter and if the Italians were being genuine, then she would surely improve her international relations with some of the Western European countries. America had always been telling her to get out and do more, so this should count.

But good grief. It was going to be so hard trying to hang around with those Italian brothers without wanting to kill herself. Or them.

Stupid American.

Stupid Italians.

And stupid, stupid her.

She should have just declined Italia Romano's invitation from the start. Since when did her tongue fail her in putting someone in his place? It was surely unheard of!

After a few hours of staring into space and mindlessly scribbling circles onto work reports, she had opted to change into a looser business outfit. The process only lasted a few minutes before she glanced at her texts. Immediately, she was taken aback by how succinct and precise the older brother's directions were. Weren't Italians supposed to be chatterboxes? Or was that a stereotype mainly more attuned to the northern part of the country.

Regardless, she still had to go and with half an hour ticking away, she immediately started walking towards her destination.

It was a fancy looking restaurant with a name so goddamn long and in stylized curlicues that it had Belarus' head spinning faster than a top. Once she entered the establishment, the first thing she noticed was that she was completely out of her element.

For one, she felt that her clothes felt a little more utilitarian than what the other diners were used to. For two, both of the Italian brothers were looking at her.

Looking at her.

She wasn't used to people doing that. Her brother often dismissed her after a few minutes of idle conversation, America was often chasing after some plan for heroicness, the Baltics were either too besotted or terrified of her. The only nation who could withstand her presence was Ukraine, but her sister was too busy nowadays with her own economy.

Come to think of it, her life was pretty sad.

So, with a slight grimace, she returned their stares.

Dear gods above, was she supposed to say anything?

Luckily for her, before she could fumble for words to say, South Italy stood up elegantly from his seat and guided her into her own. For a few moments, all she could focus on was the hand on the small of her back.

It felt—

"I apologize for not escorting you personally to the restaurant, but I was busy getting the proper paperwork in order."

"That's fine," she replied, terse in tone and in movements. Already, she can feel that this night wasn't going to go well. There were far too many variables put into this mathematical equation—since when were the Italians so suave and sure of themselves? As a matter of fact, weren't Italians supposedly always late? She shook her head, not wanting to get into the specifics about Italian stereotypes, to be honest. "So…" She reflexively bit her lip, trying her damnedest not to start insulting them. "How are your finances?"

That…that wasn't how normal people talked, right? To be fair, she was somehow led into believing that this was supposed to be all business, but the way they were looking at her…were their eyes somehow looking into her soul?

"Actually, bella—"

"Belarus," she interjected. For a moment, she let a dark scowl creep on her face. There were better times and even better places for such pretty nonsense names. "Or Bielorussia, if you prefer."

Much to her surprise, Italia Romano (that was his name, right?) smiled indulgently at her before saying with much conviction, "Signorina Bielorussia, has anyone ever told you that—"

Much to her relief and confusion, the blonde was saved by the younger Italian personification.

"Our politicians aren't the best, but at least they try their hardest!"

For a moment, both the older Italian and the Belarusian stared in what appeared to be twin stares of shock. That was something that Belarus definitely didn't need to know about; it was kind of obvious with how Italian politics worked and how often they changed governments that their politicians were simply…not the best.

And that was putting things rather lightly.

"O-oh. I suppose we can always talk about finances?"

Usually, Veneziano wasn't one to resort to violence, but right now, he was only a couple of inane comments away from decking his brother across the restaurant. Really, Veneziano wasn't mad that Romano had pretty much hijacked his plans to—woo? romance?—talk to her and now…

The younger Italian personification looked to find that his brother was busy making the Belarusian lose her composure via weirdly worded compliments and offers to "improve their foreign relations". Ha! As if no one older than three hundred years didn't know what that meant.

The evening, no matter how awkward it was (at least on his end), seemed to be going very well. During the course of their meal, they managed to go over financial and business matters. Due to Romano's silver tongue and quick wit, Belarus had managed to act civil.

After exchanging a couple more throw away comments about the state of the European Union and events throughout the world, they had moved onto discussing themselves.

And since when was his older brother this suave around this woman? Like Veneziano, Romano was intimidated by strong women, but he was flirting as if Belarus was just like any other bella ragazza. But here was the thing; Belarus wasn't just like any other beautiful woman! She was a strong, willful nation who had seen more than her fair share of battle, which only gave her a certain depth that only others of their kind could ever hope to compare.

She was quiet and reserved, but had a penchant for crude comments and even worse insults. Often, she would stare off into space when she thought no one was paying attention, but she was attentive and loyal to those she loved.

Veneziano really liked those aspects of her character.

And maybe that was why he started looking at her on that day.

Yes, he could remember it quite clearly. The look of utter blankness on her face—what was she hiding underneath those pale blue eyes? How she sat perfectly still like a porcelain doll. She was all too demure to even match her uncouth mouth.

"—just be a moment. Please excuse me."

Veneziano blinked rapidly when he realized that the woman he was supposed to be talking to had left her seat and was—!

A careful hand held him back before Veneziano could start bounding after her.

"What are you—"

"Geeze, relax, fratellino. The bella is just going to the restroom." Romano shook his head in bemusement as he felt his brother's stiffened form relax and slump over his chair. "What's wrong with you tonight? I thought for sure that we would never get past the financial reports…"

Romano abruptly slapped the back of his hand against his brother's forehead.

"I'm not sick," Veneziano choked out. "I'm just…" He trailed off, his tongue no longer translating what his mind was thinking at that moment. "She's so beautiful, but I'm such an idiot when I talk to her! How were you so charming when you talk to her?" He couldn't help but grumble, "Whenever I talk to her, she looks like she's constipated."

Italia Romano loved his brother with all of his heart, but even he couldn't help but chuckle a bit at his brother's misery. Although his laughter wasn't mean-spirited, Veneziano still rewarded his sibling with a mock punch to the shoulder.

"Here's the thing: you are an idiot." Romano managed to huff out between breaths of laughter.

"And you're a thief."

"I already told you, Veneziano, you can't steal something that you didn't have in the first place." The darker haired brother nudged his sibling with his shoulder as he tried to talk some sense into him. "Besides, I didn't do anything special, I'm just a natural at this."

"I thought you were supposed to make me feel better, not worse than before."

"Shut up, asshole! I'm still trying to talk to you. Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes. Why don't you just talk to her about that coffee thing?"

With a withering look, Veneziano replied, "She. Hates. Coffee."

"And therein is your chance to have her change her mind about the coffee and by extension, you. No, listen to me!" Romano pulled his brother back into his chair before his younger sibling could even think about walking out on him. "Think about it. The coffee is merely a starting point to get her to talk to you more. The coffee isn't the goal here, it's you."

Veneziano blinked at his brother.

"Obviously, fratello."

"Then take that sass and confidence and show her that you're interested, you little shit!"

"Interested in what?"

At that moment, both brothers looked up to see Belarus looming over the both of them, a blank look keeping her porcelain face completely unreadable.

At that moment—that exact moment—Veneziano found himself at the mercy of his own damned silver tongue. With a confidence and swagger that he rarely ever used, the brunet stood up from his seat, took the blonde's hands in his own, and looked her deep in the eyes.

"Coffee!" His grip on her hands tightened imperceptibly at his plea. "Signora Bielorussia, please have a sip of Italian coffee tomorrow!"

Her eye twitched.

"You're still going on about that? You can't just—"

"Please, improve our international relations by drinking my coffee!"

Romano silently slapped his face.

There were so many euphemisms in that statement, it was surprising that Belarus hadn't attacked the both of them yet.

However, much to the surprise of all three, Belarus merely took in the earnest expression on his face before nodding.

That grip on her hands…it was much too tight.

It felt nice and warm.

After the events of last night, Belarus was more than inclined to not go with what she had said (after all, she was under the influence of the wine and that adorable look of supplication from the Northern Italian), but well…She may have been a rather uncouth individual, but that didn't mean she broke her word. With a heavy heart and with an even heavier expression of disdain on her face, she meandered towards one of the tables where she knew the Italian would be and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Was she too early?

Damn those Italians. Specifically the one who told her to come at a specific time just so that she can "broaden her horizons like the Renaissance men of old", her ass. Ha! Italia Veneziano better be lucky that she actually remembered enough of his country's history to know that attacking him unprovoked probably wasn't the best idea.

She wasn't stupid.

There was a reason why Italy was part of the G8.

So, it was out of the kindness of her heart that the Belarusian decided that she would give him three minutes. Three minutes was more than enough time to let the Italian decide on whether or not he was actually interested in continuing their negotiations considering coffee, but if not…

Well, she tried.

She glanced at the analog clock on the wall.

One minute.

Two minutes.

Two minutes and a—

"Ciao, bella!"

"Belarus," she gritted out through clenched teeth. "Belarus will do."

"Well then, bella Belarus, ready for your cup of caffé italiano?"

"Joy," she mumbled as she took a mug of steaming black coffee from his hands.

While she could hear the annoying Italian babbling about nonsense, she took note of the steam that rose from the mug, how the rich scent of something spicy and cloying filled her nose. It wasn't an unpleasant scent, she thought, but it was definitely something that she wasn't accustomed to. Her country had been increasing imports for coffee over the past few years, but she personally never indulged in the beverage.

Inwardly, she counted down from three and immediately took a sip.

Aaaaaaa—

"Ah, Signorina Bielor—Miss Belarus! You're supposed to blow on it first! Miss—"

"Shut up. I've been through a lot worse, Sieńjor Italii." Her voice, gruff from the sudden onslaught of searing temperatures on her tongue, somehow had an undertone of awe in it.

"But your face—! It looked like you were about to die!"

"Dry your tears; I'm fine."

"A-and the coffee?"

"Passable." She took a long sip (this time after breathing lightly on it). "Try again tomorrow."

She refused to admit that she allowed a small smile to grace her features when she saw that the Italian pumped his fist in the air and hooted like a teenager.

Maybe, tomorrow, she'll get him a bottle of kvass.