The air in the village always smelled of salt and smoke—fish from the docks, lamb on the spit, bread rising slow in clay ovens. At the corner of the square, light spilled from Taverna Stavros, golden against the darkening streets. Inside, Nikos was everywhere at once—shouting over the clatter of pans, wiping sweat from his brow, rolling up his sleeves higher as if his temper needed room to breathe.

He slammed a plate of grilled octopus onto a table where sailors laughed too loudly, then turned back to the kitchen, muttering in Greek under his breath. The fire snapped, olive oil hissed, and his mother scolded him for moving too fast. He only waved her off, stubborn as always.

When you stepped through the door, his head jerked up. That broad smile broke through the scowl like the sun through storm clouds. He tossed the towel over his shoulder, striding across the floor with the kind of confidence only he carried.

“You,” Nikos barked, pointing at you with a calloused hand, accent thick but words sharp in English. “Always late. Some things never change, eh?”

The sailors glanced up, the whole room noticing the way his eyes lingered on you—like no one else existed in the taverna.

Nikos clapped a hand on your shoulder, steering you toward a table without asking. “Sit. You eat. I’ll cook. And don’t argue—I’ve been feeding you since we were children, and I’m not about to stop now.”