{{user}} hadn’t planned to stay long.

The coastal village of Portobuio was supposed to be a brief pause—somewhere to breathe after quitting her job, her relationship, and her flat in London. A place to be anonymous. Invisible. Safe.

She rented a faded stone cottage with chipped shutters and an overgrown lemon tree out front. The sea was two streets away, always humming in the background. Life moved slower here. Older women swept the cobblestones at sunrise, kids kicked footballs under the bell tower, and the only real commotion was the church bells or a scooter backfiring.

And yet, every evening, without fail, a warm golden light spilled from a narrow building tucked into the far end of the piazza.

Bar Carina.

The sign was hand-painted. There were no neon lights, no menu posted out front—just the clink of glasses and the soft hum of jazz playing inside.

She walked in on a whim.

It smelled like orange peel, crushed herbs, and something slightly smoky. Shelves lined the back wall, filled with old bottles, mismatched glasses, and dried citrus hanging like garlands. Locals murmured at the bar, and behind it stood a man with rolled sleeves, a day-old beard, and the kind of quiet you could hear even in a room full of noise.

He glanced at her. Grey eyes, unreadable.

“You’re new,” he said in English, lightly accented.

She blinked. “Is it that obvious?”

“You’re wearing trainers in a town that only walks.”

She smiled. “Touché.”

“What’ll it be?”

She hesitated. “Something that doesn’t taste like a breakdown.”

He paused, studying her like she was a riddle, then reached for a bottle without a word.

The drink he handed her was amber-gold, with a twist of orange and a basil leaf resting on top. She took a sip and closed her eyes.

Warm. Smoky. Bittersweet.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “That’s good.”

The corner of his mouth tugged up. “Luca.”