Obviously I can’t sleep.
I witnessed a murder. Got interrogated by police. Accidentally confessed to stalking a mobster. Spent all night lying in bed, thinking about the way Dario’s voice felt on my skin instead of processing the trauma like a normal person.
Same thing all day.
So I do what I always do when my brain won’t shut up.
I bake.
Stress-baking is a time-honored tradition in the Overthinking Women community. Some people journal. Some people meditate. I make cookies that I’ll eat standing over the sink at 4 AM while contemplating my life choices.
Tonight it’s peanut butter chocolate chip. Classic. Reliable. The kind of cookie that doesn’t judge you for being attracted to alleged murderers.
The repetitive motion helps. Cream butter and sugar. Add eggs. Mix in flour. Fold in chips. Scoop. Bake. Repeat.
Don’t think about dark eyes.
Don’t think about his voice saying breathe.
Don’t think about how he stayed when he should have run.
The timer dings.
I swap trays. Slide the new batch into the oven. Set the timer again.
Mechanical. Precise. If I just keep moving, I don’t have to think about the fact that I just torpedoed a man’s entire life because I couldn’t look away from him for five consecutive Tuesdays.
The kitchen’s closing in. Too warm. Too sweet. Not enough oxygen for both my guilt and three dozen cookies.
I need air.
I wipe my hands on my apron and step out onto the front porch.
It’s that in-between time. Not quite dark but getting there. Streetlights flickering on. The world going soft at the edges.
And there’s a man leaning against a car parked across the street.
My brain cataloging reflex kicks in before rational thought can intervene.
Tall. Broad shoulders. The kind of build that suggests he either works out obsessively or hurts people for a living. Probably both.
Dark hair. Leather jacket that’s seen some shit. Jeans that fit in a way that should be illegal.
Thighs that could crush a watermelon.
Stop it, Stevie. Jesus Christ.
He straightens when he sees me. Starts crossing the street.
And oh.
Oh no.
I recognize the walk first. Confident. Controlled. The way he moves like violence is always an option but he’s choosing not to use it right now and my body reacts like it’s disappointed.
Then the face.
Enzo.
