Even from across the street, I can see the moment recognition hits.
The cookies. The specific cookies. The same ones I sent him through Enzo, the ones I made at 2 AM while crying, the ones that taste like apology and obsession and something I don’t want to think about.
He pulls out the napkin, reads it, and smiles.
Not in a smug, ‘I knew she’d crack’ way. Not even in a ‘this chick is unwell’ way.
It’s soft. It’s fond. It’s doing things to my internal organs that should require medical intervention.
Saul would be so disappointed in me.
Saul would use his kind, steady voice and say something about safety and making good choices.
Saul isn’t here.
And Dario is smiling like I’m exactly the kind of chaos he’s been missing.
He looks around again. Slower this time. More careful.
He’s looking for me. He wants to find me.
I hold my breath. Press myself back against the seat. Try to become one with the upholstery.
His gaze sweeps past my car.
Doesn’t stop. Doesn’t register me as anything worth noticing.
Good.
Bad.
I don’t know which.
A traitorous part of me wants him to spot me. To walk over like we’re in a noir film and say, “I knew you’d come back.”
And I’d melt. Or combust. Or spontaneously turn into steam.
But he doesn’t.
Because this isn’t a movie. It’s my life. And I fucked it up.
He looks at the cookies one more time. That small smile still playing at his mouth.
And he goes back inside.
I sit in the car like I’ve just survived a near-death experience.
Which I have. Emotional death counts.
And yet, he smiled.
At my note. My cookies. Me.
Like he missed me too. Like maybe I’m not the only idiot who remembers fifteen minutes of shared space like it was a lifetime.
The door opens again. Dario comes out. Gets into a black car parked near the entrance.
He’s leaving.
