In his other hand, a glass frosted with the cold kiss of the season—part gin, part tonic, part whispered vow of adventure—glitters under the sun. The ice cubes jostle like little Arctic explorers, discovering new frontiers in the swirl of citrus and juniper. The first sip tastes of a thousand unhurried pleasures waiting to be devoured. It’s the initial overture of a symphony called Vacation. The Bruno exists in that space between effort and ease. Italian-crafted pique, soft enough to forget, structured enough to impress. The single-button placket, an invitation to let the day unfold as it pleases.