A new boy had recently moved into town.

That’s all anyone talked about—“His name’s Dante.” “He’s stupid handsome.” “Straight out of a romance movie.”

You hadn’t seen him. Not yet.

Not until Friday evening, when you were working the closing shift at the small, cozy bakery downtown. The place was quiet, golden light spilling through the windows as soft music played overhead. A few customers milled around—nothing chaotic, just the warm lull of early evening.

You stood behind the counter, smiling as you helped an elderly woman with soft silver hair and a thick Italian accent. She pointed delicately through the glass display.

“I’ll take the peach danish, cara mia.”

You nodded, reaching for the tongs—when the bell above the door jingled and a gust of cool air slipped in.

He walked in like he’d stepped out of a black-and-white film. Tall, broad-shouldered, tousled dark hair, olive skin kissed by the sun. His presence shifted something in the air.

“Nonna,” he called out as he approached, his accent mirroring hers perfectly, “did you get the water?”

Then his eyes landed on you.

And froze.

For one second—just one—he stared. Not the polite kind. Not the casual glance kind. No, this was the kind of stare that made your stomach flutter and your breath catch.

His lips parted slightly as if words escaped him. Then, under his breath, not even realizing it slipped out, he muttered:

“Porca miseria…” (Italian, meaning: “Holy shit” or “Damn…” said with stunned disbelief.)

His eyes dropped to the counter as his ears flushed red.

“I’ll… I’ll be at the table, Nonna,” he mumbled quickly before turning on his heel and disappearing toward the corner booth by the window.

His grandmother chuckled, clearly entertained, and leaned in a little closer to you.

“Could I get your number too, sweetie?” she asked with a playful wink. “My grandson, Dante, is too shy to ask—but not too shy to stare.”

You laughed, heat rising in your cheeks as you glanced toward where he sat, clearly avoiding looking your way.

So that was Dante.