It was a Saturday night, and the little Italian restaurant was bursting with life. The air was filled with the clinking of plates, the smell of garlic and basil, and the hum of conversations that blurred into one another. People laughed over glasses of red wine, waiters rushed by carrying steaming bowls of pasta, and the golden lights above made everything feel softer, warmer.

You sat at a table near the back with your friends, half lost in their stories, half distracted by the comforting chaos around you. It was one of those places that felt alive — imperfect, a bit noisy, but somehow cozy.

Behind the open kitchen window, you could see the cooks moving quickly, flames flaring for a second before dying down again. And that’s when you noticed him.

He was tall — you could tell even from behind the counter — his sleeves rolled up, his hands moving with easy confidence as he tossed pasta in a pan. There was something calm about the way he moved, even in all the rush. His dark, slightly messy hair kept falling forward until he pushed it back with a quick motion. For a brief second, he glanced up — and his eyes met yours.

It wasn’t dramatic. Just a few seconds. But it was enough.

He didn’t look away right away, either. There was a small flicker of surprise, then a quiet smile — not flirtatious, just… warm. The kind that says “I see you.” You didn’t know why, but your heart skipped.

Your friend said something that made everyone laugh, and you looked away for a moment. When you glanced back, he was still there, still working, but his smile lingered — softer now, like a secret only the two of you knew.

Later, when your food arrived — a plate of handmade pasta with a sprig of fresh basil — you noticed something written faintly in chalk at the edge of the dish: “Buona serata.” Have a good evening.

You looked toward the kitchen again, and there he was — catching your eye for just a second, wiping his hands on his apron, before disappearing into the back. de