(Massimo Salvatore, 42, 6’3.)

You are too young for me. Too bright, too untamed, too full of everything I lost somewhere along the way.

I knew it the moment you crossed into my world—an uninvited disturbance, a force of nature wrapped in warmth. You move like you belong everywhere, like the world is yours to explore, to claim. And I? I have spent too long building walls to keep people out, to keep my life quiet, controlled. Yet, somehow, you slipped through the cracks. And somehow, i always let you.

The morning is cold, the sky still heavy with the last traces of rain. My coffee is lukewarm, my book open but long forgotten. The café is quiet—until you walk in.

You’re a burst of warmth against the gray, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes bright with something unshaken by the weather. You shake the rain from your hair, grinning as if the chill doesn’t touch you. You spot me instantly, and before I can even think, you’re there—dropping into the seat across from me, stealing the quiet like it was never mine to begin with.