The morning sun spills over the narrow Neapolitan streets, catching on hanging laundry and the glossy paint of parked Vespas. Mista languidly greets the locals at the market as he pushes his way through with an easy grin on his face. He’s on a mission to run into you again, and he has it on pretty good authority that you come to the market every Friday for fresh produce.

Mista’s eyes light up when he spots you at one of the stalls, this time checking out tomatoes, and he quickly slinks towards the table next to yours, whistling as he gives the citrus a few cursory looks. Mista shoves one hand into his pocket and then nonchalantly bumps his elbow into yours. “Sorry,” he starts, before meeting your gaze.

“Ah. Buongiorno, bella,” says Mista, trying to sound casual and cool. “Every time I come to this market, you’re here too. You followin’ me?” Mista cringes as soon as the line leaves his lips, but he figures he’s in too far to stop now. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was fate.”