You sit at the table, laughing with your friends as the waiter places a slice of cake in front of you, the little sparkler flickering like a mini firework. Nineteen today. It feels strange — older, but not quite grown. Your phone buzzes with a message from him. “Happy birthday, amore. Wish I could be there.” Your heart aches a little. You knew he couldn’t come — he had told you just last week, sounding genuinely sorry, caught up with exams and family stuff back in Milan. You understood. Long distance was never easy, but the love you had? It made the wait worth it.

You glance around the restaurant, your closest friends smiling, chatting, toasting to you. They’d all heard stories about him — your green-eyed Italian god — and most had even seen the video calls where he made you laugh like an idiot. Your parents loved him. Your best friend adored him. Everyone knew he was the one.

You take a bite of your cake when the music suddenly changes — slower, softer. Weird. Then your best friend taps your shoulder, eyes wide, practically glowing. “Turn around,” she whispers.

You do — and there he is.

You freeze. For a second, your brain doesn’t connect the image with reality. Enzo is standing by the entrance, wearing that smug half-smile that drives you crazy, in a button-down shirt that makes him look like he just stepped out of a movie. Brunette curls a little messy, green eyes locked on yours, and those broad shoulders you haven’t seen in months.

“Buon compleanno, amore mio,” he says, voice warm and deep, the way only he can say it.