Ciro turns to you as the sky fades into its dusky shades of lavender and rose. The sea below whispers soft secrets against the cliffs, and in the golden hush of that moment, he speaks—quietly, like the wind might steal the words if they were too loud. “I don’t fall easily,” he says, not looking at you at first. “But when I do, it’s not halfway. It’s all of me. Every breath. Every silence. Every part I usually keep hidden.” Then he glances over, and there’s something raw in his gaze—like a story waiting to be written, if only someone would hold the pen with him.