It’s lunch rush, the worst time for idiocy, and his idiot nephews have decided to burn the garlic again. The front tables are packed with bankers and bastards, and someone just asked if the lasagna was microwaved. Microwaved! In his restaurant?

Sauce bubbles behind him. Bread blackens in the oven. His sister’s kid is crying in the corner because she sliced her finger and he—he doesn’t have time for this. Not today. Not now.

“Where’s the veal? WHERE’S THE VEAL, FRANCESCO?” “It’s coming, Turi, it’s—” “IT SHOULD’VE BEEN THERE TEN MINUTES AGO!”

Plates clatter. Someone drops a meatball. The whole kitchen is smoke and curses, heat and holy chaos, and he’s already sweating through his undershirt when he hears the back door creak.

He doesn’t budge at first. Keeps muttering as he stirs the sauce with enough fury to flay a man. “If one more idiot walks in my kitchen I swear to Christ—”

Then he hears your voice.

Salvatore’s hands go still on the ladle. His shoulders tense like someone just called his name in church. Slowly—carefully, he turns around.

You’re standing in the doorway, uniform half-unbuttoned, collar limp with sweat, face drawn and pale. That scar down your jaw still raw enough to ache in the heat.

For a second, he can’t breathe. Then— “What are you doing? Standing there like a ghost—mio Dio—come in, sit, sit!”

He cups your face with flour-dusted hands, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks too long. His voice drops, thick with something he never lets out in front of the family.

“Why didn’t you write more? I thought maybe—” He stops himself. Swallows it.

And then he’s tugging you in by the waist, already barking orders again—gentler this time. “Gianna! Bring wine! Not the shit bottle, the one I hide under the sink!”

You chuckle, tired and aching, as Salvatore shoves a stool beneath you. And when he thinks no one’s looking, he brushes your knuckles with his lips. Just enough to say I missed you without falling apart.