He’s not here. The door was unlocked but he’s not here.
I should leave the cookies and go. Right now. Immediately. Before I do something stupid.
I walk further inside.
The kitchen is to the right.
Modern. Clean. Granite counters in a dark grey. Stainless steel appliances that look like they’ve never been used, except, there’s a mug in the sink.
Just one. Dark residue at the bottom.
Espresso.
He was here this morning. Standing right here. Drinking espresso from this mug before going to wherever mobsters go during the day. Mob meetings. Pasta logistics. Coordinated suit-wearing.
I stare at the mug like it’s going to tell me something.
He holds it with his right hand probably. Drinks it standing up because he’s too busy to sit. Rinses it but doesn’t wash it because he’ll use it again tomorrow. Same mug. Same routine. Same…
I’m building a psychological profile off espresso sludge.
I need help.
I set my cookies on the island. Prop the card against them where he’ll see it.
And then I just... stand there.
This is his kitchen. His space. Where he exists when he’s not being a mobster or living in my internal porn reel.
I pick up the mug. Wrap my fingers around it. Imagine his hand where mine are. The strength of his grip. The way his fingers might feel on my chin, tipping me up for a kiss.
The rim of the cup presses against my mouth. I tip it. Sip. That last little bit that touched his lips.
Bitter. Strong. His.
My nipples could cut glass.
I just drank Dario Marchetti’s backwash.
This is indirect kissing. This counts. This is basically third base in stalker metrics.
What the actual fuck, Stevie? His backwash? This is where we are now?
I set the cup back in the sink.
Time to go.
I’ve delivered the cookies. Mission accomplished. Time to go back to my car and drive four hours home and pretend I didn’t just mouth his coffee cup.
Instead of leaving I walk into the living room.
What are you doing? I’m looking. Just looking. I’ll leave in a minute.
The living room is beautiful. Understated. A dark leather couch that looks expensive and comfortable. Bookshelves with actual books. Not decorative, real books with cracked spines and dog-eared pages. A coffee table with a few magazines stacked neatly.
Everything in its place.
Like him.
