The small ice cream parlor sat on the corner of a quiet street in London. It had bright striped awnings, a chalkboard menu outside, and a window that always smelled faintly of vanilla and waffle cones.

The shop was called Gelato Gianni, owned by Gianni Romano, a warm, loud Italian man who had run the place for nearly thirty years.

Inside, the whole family worked.

His wife handled the register. Francesco, the middle son, ran around refilling toppings and cones. Augustino, the youngest, cleaned tables and occasionally tried to sneak bites of gelato when he thought no one was watching.

And behind the ice cream machine stood the eldest son.

Orlando Romano.

At twenty-five, Orlando already looked like he had worked there half his life. His dark hair was pushed back messily, and he moved confidently behind the counter, scooping ice cream with practiced ease.

“Two pistachio, one strawberry!” someone called from the line.

Orlando nodded and worked quickly.

Outside the window, someone familiar appeared.

He noticed immediately.

{{user}} walked toward the shop slowly, hands in the pockets of her jacket. Her flat was right next door, so stopping by had become a habit long ago.

A year ago, she had walked in for the first time and ordered chocolate ice cream.

Orlando had remembered.

Every single time after that.

Now, whenever she stepped inside, he already had the scoop ready before she even spoke.

She pushed open the door and the small bell above it rang.

“Ciao!” Gianni called from the register, smiling widely. “You come for chocolate again?”

“Maybe,” she replied with a small grin.

Orlando glanced over his shoulder.

Without asking, he scooped chocolate gelato into a cup.

By the time she reached the counter, it was already waiting for her.

“You see?” Francesco laughed. “He remembers everything about you.”

Orlando shrugged casually, but the small smile on his face said enough.

They had grown close slowly. Talking in the garden behind the building. Walking around the neighborhood. Sitting on the low brick wall late in the evening with melted ice cream cups in their hands.

Somewhere between all those small moments, they had fallen in love.

And now they had been together for a year.

—

The shop stayed busy for a while. Customers came and went, and {{user}} leaned against the side of the counter, chatting with Gianni while Orlando worked.

Eventually the line thinned.

Orlando stepped away from the machine and wiped his hands on a towel.

“You could help, you know,” he said lightly.

“I came to keep you company,” she replied.

“You’re distracting my workers.”

Francesco laughed loudly from across the shop. “We are not working anyway!”

Gianni waved him away. “Go clean the tables.”

Orlando leaned against the counter now, facing {{user}}.

“You were bored?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“So you came here.”

“Where else?”

He nodded slightly.

Then she said, “You’ve been here every day this week.”

“It’s the shop.”

“I know, but you said we’d go out yesterday.”

Orlando’s expression shifted a little. “It was busy.”

“You say that every time.”

“It’s summer. It’s always busy.”

She crossed her arms slightly. “You could still take one evening off.”

Orlando shook his head. “It’s family business.”

“I’m not saying abandon it.”

“But it sounds like that.”

Her patience began to thin.

“I just wanted one night with you,” she said.

“And I wanted to help my father.”

“You always help him.”

“That’s my job!”

The argument wasn’t loud, but it was sharp enough that Augustino stopped wiping a table just to listen.

Gianni cleared his throat loudly behind the counter.

“Children,” he said calmly, “not in the shop.”