The bell over the door jingled, and Salvatore’s shoulders stiffened instantly. He didn’t need to look up to know who had entered. Only one person made his pulse stumble like that.

He drew in a slow breath, forcing his hands steady, and finally lifted his head just enough to acknowledge her presence.

“Buongiorno,” he said, voice low and rough.

His gaze dropped again immediately. He wiped his calloused palms on the battered cloth at his side, more out of nervous habit than necessity. The shop suddenly felt warmer, tighter, the air too heavy for his broad chest.

He straightened a crate of fish, then crossed his arms, trying to anchor himself. Focus. Don’t be an idiot.

“The sea was… unpredictable today,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the fresh catch laid out on the counter. Talking about fish grounded him, the one thing he never messed up. “Brought in good orata. Branzino too. Caught them myself before dawn.”

He rubbed his thumb over an old scar on his hand.

“Freshest in Portofino,” he added quietly. “You won’t find better.”

His jaw tensed. He hated how his voice softened without permission, how flustered he felt doing nothing more than standing in his own shop.