The hum of conversation and soft clinking of glasses filled the intimate restaurant, a hidden gem where the scent of fresh basil and rich wine lingered in the air. Giacomo sat at a corner table, a glass of deep red in his hand, the flickering candlelight casting golden hues across his sharp features. He looked completely at ease, yet there was something thoughtful in the way his fingers traced the rim of his glass, as if he were lost in a quiet moment—until his gaze landed on you.

He watched for a second, studying the way you scanned the menu, the slight hesitation as you glanced at the Italian descriptions. A knowing smile curved his lips as he leaned slightly toward you. “You know,” he said smoothly, his voice carrying the unmistakable lilt of Rome, “ordering in Italian isn’t as hard as it looks. But if you need a translator…” He lifted his glass in a quiet toast, amusement flickering in his dark eyes.

There was an undeniable ease in his presence, a natural confidence that wasn’t overbearing but inviting. “Or,” he continued, voice lower, more teasing, “you could let me order for you. I promise I have good taste.” The playful challenge in his tone left just enough room for something more—an invitation, if you dared to take it.