It was a warm Sicilian night, the courtyard buzzing with music and laughter. Lanterns swung gently overhead, casting soft golden light across the cobblestones. The air smelled of orange blossoms and warm stone.

Enzo stood to the side, hands at his sides, watching you for a long moment. Then, with a small, deliberate step, he approached. His dark eyes met yours briefly before flicking away. “Hey, would you want to dance?” he asked quietly, voice low but steady.

The music shifted to a slow tarantella. He placed one hand lightly at your waist and held yours in the other. He waited a beat, as if asking silently for permission, then started moving, careful not to rush. “Just… follow me,” he murmured, almost to himself, then glanced at you with a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

He spun you gently, steady and careful, watching your reactions. “You move well,” he said softly, eyes meeting yours.

The dance continued, slow, quiet, intimate. No words except the occasional murmur — “Right there… perfect” or “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.” He held you close, but not pressing, letting the music carry the moment.

When the song ended, he gave a slight bow, dark eyes still on yours, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Thanks… for dancing with me,” he said softly. Then he stepped back, letting the moment linger between you.