I was wiping down the counter after lunch when Mr. Enzo appeared in the kitchen doorway again. He didn’t lean this time—just stood straight, hands in his pockets, watching me with that quiet intensity that made my stomach flutter in a way I didn’t understand.

“Zara,” he said, voice low but clear. “Can we talk for a minute?”

I set the cloth down, wiping my hands on my apron. “Yes, sir.”

He stepped closer, close enough that I had to tilt my head up a little. “I have a ...