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“You sure you don’t want anything else?” she presses lightly, fingers twisting a strand of hair. “We just got a new hazelnut blend in.”
Lucas snorts softly into his cup.
I shake my head. “I’m fine.”
She leans in slightly. “You always say that.” A notification cuts through the conversation. I glance down, already annoyed by the interruption.
Dante: “Why the fuck is the barista bitch flirting with you?”
For a split second, I think I misread it. My eyes lift, and Dante isn’t smiling anymore. He stares directly at Emily with malice carved on his face. His jaw is tight, and his shoulders are squared in a way that isn’t relaxed anymore.
“Okay, well,” she says quickly, flashing me one last look, “just wave if you need my assistance.”
Dante’s gaze follows her the entire way as she moves back to the counter, and he doesn’t bother hiding it. And I’m not sure what to make of it. I type back for the first time.
Me: “What the fuck do you want?”
Dante: “You.”
My gaze shoots toward him. He is already standing, adjusting the brim of his cap, his expression smoothed back into something charming and unreadable.
He doesn’t look at Lucas. Doesn’t acknowledge the room. He just looks at me one last time as he moves towards the counter.
“Give me a minute,” I say, pushing my chair back as I stand.
“Adrian—”
I don’t wait for the rest as I move across the cafe floor. Emily has her back to us, bent over the machine with milk steaming, the sharp hiss cutting through the air.
Dante doesn’t look at me as I meet his side.
He stands close to the counter, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jeans. Up close, he’s taller than I remember. Broad enough to make the space feel smaller, and for half a second the scale difference registers in my peripheral vision.
“What are you doing here?” I ask quietly.
He turns his head just enough to look at me. “Last I checked, this was a public place,” he says mildly, and my jaw tightens at that.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Play dumb.”
Emily sets a cup down between us and moves to the register for another order. Dante leans his hip against the granite, angled toward me now. “I’m getting coffee,” he says simply. “You saw me order.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He studies my face openly. Just the faintest trace of amusement flickers in his eyes.
“What do you think I’m planning?” he asks.
I lower my voice further. “You don’t just walk into a room by accident.”
His smile deepens. “And you don’t sit with your back to the wall by accident.”
He’s close enough that I can see the faint shadow of a bruise along his jaw and a proper look at his split lip. Close enough that the smell of him fills my senses all too willingly, making my pulse spike in my throat, and I’m forced to swallow it down.
He picks up his cup, takes a slow sip, never once breaking eye contact.
