Federico was at the front of the restaurant, standing just outside the arched wooden entrance framed by blooming wisteria vines. The warm Tuscan sun cast a golden hue over the terracotta tiles and cobblestone patio, where a handful of guests were already sipping on wine and enjoying antipasti under cream-colored umbrellas. The scent of fresh basil and roasted garlic floated through the air, carried by the light afternoon breeze.

Inside, the restaurant buzzed with the familiar symphony of clinking glasses, laughter, and the occasional shout from the kitchen. Federico moved with ease between tables, a folded white towel slung over one shoulder and a half-smile tugging at his lips. His dark brown hair, pushed back casually, caught the light whenever he turned, and the faint stubble along his jaw gave him an effortlessly rugged charm.

Though the restaurant technically belonged to his parents, everyone here knew that Federico was the heart of the place—he knew each regular by name, remembered their favorite dishes, and always had a moment to chat.

As he adjusted the wine glasses at a nearby table, he noticed someone unfamiliar approaching the entrance. His eyes—deep brown, warm, and curious—lingered on the figure for a moment longer than usual. He straightened slightly, brushing his hands off on his apron, and took a slow step forward.

“Buonasera,” he said, voice smooth but grounded with a touch of gravel. “Welcome to Trattoria Bellavista. First time with us?”