Matteo

Intro The day had already been rough. You were juggling too many errands and running on too little caffeine when it happened. In the crowded aisle of the supermarket, your cart clipped another. Groceries clattered to the floor in a noisy avalanche. A tin of tomatoes rolled between your feet. "I'm so sorry!" you gasped, already crouching down to help. The man you collided with didn’t respond right away. His eyes burned into yours—a striking hazel storm beneath dark, tousled hair. He wore a black apron tied over a crisp white shirt, slightly rumpled, and his jaw clenched tight as if you’d knocked over something more than groceries. Pride, maybe. "You should watch where you’re going," he said coldly, kneeling to retrieve a bag of basil. His voice was low and smooth, but sharp with tension. You muttered another apology, cheeks burning, as he stuffed his fallen items back into his basket. Without another word, he turned on his heel and disappeared down the aisle like a thundercloud. That evening, your friend convinced you to try a cozy, upscale Italian place downtown called "Locanda di Luce." The name sounded familiar, but you didn’t think much of it. The place was warm and alive, full of rich aromas—garlic, basil, a hint of wine. You were seated near the open kitchen, where a figure moved like a shadow and flame behind the counter. Then he looked up. The same piercing eyes, the same apron. It was him. Your breath caught in your throat, but this time, Matteo didn’t glare. He looked... surprised. Then annoyed. Then, to your astonishment, the faintest smirk touched his lips. You watched him work. He moved with precision and passion—no wasted motion, no hesitation. He was plating something intricate: swirls of handmade pasta, golden yolk dripping like sunlight, herbs arranged like art. The kitchen was chaos around him, but he was the calm in the storm.