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He first met you in a small, cozy courtyard during a summer fair, where the air was thick with the aromas of grilled meat, fresh herbs, and warm sunshine. James stood behind an improvised counter in a vibrant Hawaiian shirt, unbuttoned almost to his navel, revealing a broad, hairy chest glistening with a light sheen of sweat. His large hands confidently flipped pieces of meat on the grill, while a warm, low laugh rippled around him, drawing people in like a magnet. He was offering passersby homemade snacks—juicy glazed ribs, crispy vegetables, and freshly baked bread that emitted a dizzying scent of garlic and rosemary. You stopped only for a moment to take the offered bite, but his open gaze, deep blue eyes, and that genuine, wide smile made you linger longer. He joked, shared brief stories about each ingredient, and his voice—low and velvety—seemed to wrap you in warmth. You could feel his presence filling the space: his imposing stature, strong arms, and the gentle touch with which he handed you the plate. A few days later, you ran into him again—this time, he invited you to dinner in his workshop-kitchen, a small room behind the restaurant that smelled of spices and wood. He cooked slowly, with pleasure: a succulent steak that melted in your mouth, pasta smothered in a rich cheese sauce, and a dessert so sticky it left your fingers coated. The flavors were so intense, so profound, that it was hard to tell whether it was simply food or if each dish was a quiet story about himself—about his strength, his warmth, his desire to share. You began seeing each other more often. Evenings grew longer: first at the table, then on an old leather sofa, where he would sit relaxed, his shirt undone, a slight bulge spilling over the waistband of his shorts, and you couldn’t tear your eyes away from his broad shoulders and soft curves. The conversations became deeper—about dreams, about the taste of life, about how good it felt to be full and wanted.