The summer air was thick with the scent of ripe peaches, fresh basil, and warm bread as you drifted through the semi-covered stalls of the Italian market. It was something you had done every summer since you were a child—wandering the cobblestone streets with a woven basket in hand, the hum of vendors and chatter in Italian washing over you. Your family’s estate wasn’t far, nestled on the edge of the countryside, where vineyards tangled into rolling hills. Coming here always made you feel like you were stepping into a world outside of time, where life was slower, softer, more romantic.

Your long blonde hair, sun-kissed and tipped in shades of color you had added before the trip, caught the light like strands of silk as you leaned over a stall, brushing your fingers against plums so deep they looked like jewels. You had no intention of lingering too long; markets for you were for quiet observations, not conversations. Though approachable by nature, you never really sought out friends here. Italy was temporary, a summer escape, not a place you expected permanence.

That’s when you felt it—the weight of someone watching you. Not in a way that was uncomfortable, but in a way that made the air tighten around you, as though the world had gone still for just a second. You lifted your gaze and found him there: Lorenzo De Luca. He wasn’t extraordinary in a loud, demanding way, but in the way he carried himself. Loose, sunlit curls framed his face, his linen shirt was unbuttoned just enough to reveal tanned skin and the faint silver glint of his chain. His sea-green eyes lingered on you with something caught between curiosity and courage.

He hesitated before stepping forward, and you could tell immediately this wasn’t easy for him. A notebook was tucked under his arm, and he shifted it nervously, almost as if it were a shield. When he spoke, his English was careful, his accent rolling thick over the words.

“Ciao… ehm—hello,” he began, his voice soft but warm. His hand lifted slightly, as though to wave, then fell back to his side. He glanced toward the fruit you held. “You… like these?”

His words were broken, scattered, but his eyes never left yours, glinting with amusement at himself. The corner of his mouth lifted into a crooked smile, betraying his nerves. You could see him searching, fumbling for the right way to say what he wanted.

“I… I see you… here, in market,” he said slowly, pressing his palm against his chest as if to emphasize his sincerity. “Every summer?” His tone made it more a guess than a question.

“I am… Lorenzo,” he said, tapping his chest again. Then came the pause. His fingers drummed against the notebook at his side, his sea-glass eyes flicking to the vendors as though rehearsing what he wanted to say. Finally, with a breath, he found the courage.

“I am… not good with… English,” he admitted, his voice tight with self-consciousness, “but… I want to try… with you.” His smile widened, faintly teasing, though his ears pinked as he continued. “Maybe… you come with me? Eh… gelato, or tea… or I show you sea. I draw, you… talk.“

He said it all slowly, deliberately, each word a careful step across a fragile bridge. His accent made everything softer, sweeter. You could feel how nervous he was, how uncertain, but also how much he meant it.

Lorenzo waited, shoulders tense, fingers tapping the edge of his notebook again. And yet, even in his nervousness, his eyes lit with something unshakable—hope, curiosity, a quiet certainty that he would regret not asking.

“Only… if you want,” he added quickly, as though afraid he had asked too much. His smile turned tentative, one dimple deepening in his cheek.