“Do you want cookies?” I ask. Because apparently under stress I turn into an Italian grandmother instead of a functional adult.
Feed them. Solve everything with carbs. Ignore the fact that you’re horny for the mob.
He blinks again. “What?”
“Cookies. I made peanut butter chocolate chip. They’re still warm.”
There’s a long pause where he just... looks at me.
Like he’s trying to figure out if I’m serious or if this is some kind of elaborate trap involving baked goods.
“You’re offering me cookies,” he says slowly.
“Yes.”
“After I showed up at your house unannounced.” He stretches his neck.
I could run my nose right along… “You looked sad.”
“I look threatening.”
No, sir. The threat you pose is to my self-control.
“You look like you haven’t had a home-cooked meal in six weeks and survive on vending machine coffee and violence.”
Just the corners of his mouth tip up and the steel in his eyes softens like butter left on the counter too long. “That’s... surprisingly accurate.”
“So? Cookies?”
He considers this for a moment. “Yeah. Okay. Cookies.”
I lead him inside.
My apartment’s a mess. Chaos in every corner. But it smells like cookies, which is something.
Enzo fills the doorway for a second before stepping in. His eyes do a sweep, quick, efficient, the kind of scan that tells me he’s cataloging exits and potential weapons without thinking about it.
Occupational habit, probably.
Or he’s planning my murder and wants to know his options.
Either way, it’s extremely hot and I need to get a grip.
“Sit,” I say, gesturing to the small kitchen table. “I’ll get you some.”
He sits. Watches me move around the kitchen like I’ve just moved from background noise to active concern.
I plate cookies. Pour milk. Set both in front of him.
He picks up a cookie. Takes a bite.
His eyes close.
Oh.
That’s not fair. That expression. The way his whole face softens for just a second. Like he forgot he’s supposed to be intimidating and just... exists.
I feel it between my legs and severely resent my nervous system.
