I WOULD KILL FOR YOU

Chapter 3: The Barista

I met him at a café.

It was one of those places that always smelled like vanilla and books. Soft music playing in the background, people tapping away on laptops, the occasional hiss of steamed milk cutting through the quiet. I went there when I needed to breathe, when the apartment felt too still or too tense, when Dario’s presence became too much—too close, too intense.

The barista was new. I hadn’t seen him before. He had warm eyes and a smile that lingered just a little too long. His apron was messy, but his energy was clean, easy. I noticed his hands when he handed me the cup—long fingers, soft palms, the kind of hands that never had to fight for anything.

“Nice shirt,” he said as he passed me my lavender latte.

I smiled, caught a little off guard. “Thanks.”

It was nothing. Just a compliment. Just a moment. But when I turned back to the table where Dario was sitting, I felt the shift.

He was still, unnaturally still, like he’d paused time inside his body. His eyes were locked on the barista, jaw set tight, one knuckle tapping rhythmically against his thigh.

I sat down, trying not to notice it.

We didn’t talk about it.

We never talked about anything that should’ve mattered.

That night, I found him on the balcony.

He was smoking again. I didn’t even know he smoked until a week ago. Now he did it when he was thinking. Or angry. Or both.

The cherry of the cigarette glowed bright in the dark, flaring every time he exhaled. He didn’t look at me when I stepped outside. Didn’t acknowledge me at all. He just stared out over the city like he was watching something burn.

I leaned on the railing next to him, but the silence between us wasn’t peaceful. It felt heavy. Sharp. Alive.

He didn’t say a word.

And I didn’t ask.

The next morning, I went back to the café. I hadn’t meant to. My feet just led me there.

The usual girl at the register smiled, took my order. Everything looked the same, except for one thing.

He wasn’t there.

The barista.

I scanned the back, behind the counter, the corners of the shop. Maybe he was running late. Maybe he was off today. Maybe he got fired.

But no one said a word about him. No one mentioned anything. It was like he’d never worked there at all. No trace. No goodbye. No explanation.

Just gone.

My drink came out with a sticky note on the lid. A smiley face. Not his handwriting.

I left without finishing it.

That night, back at the apartment, Dario was in the kitchen. Cooking like nothing had happened. Like nothing ever did. He was humming—off-key, but soft—and the smell of garlic and something rich filled the air. He glanced at me over his shoulder, gave me a crooked smile.

“You okay?” he asked.

I hesitated. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He nodded, turning back to the stove.

And that was it.

But I remembered. I remembered the exact way his eyes had narrowed at the café. I remembered the tension in his shoulders, the set of his jaw, the way he tapped his finger like he was counting down from something. I remembered the cigarette on the balcony. The silence. The absence.

I didn’t know what had happened to that barista.

I didn’t know if he’d been fired, or if he’d quit, or if something much worse had happened.

But deep down, I already suspected the truth.

Dario didn’t like to share.

He didn’t like to be challenged.

And he especially didn’t like it when someone else looked at me like I was something they could touch.

That was the first time I truly started to wonder.

Just how far would he go to keep me his?

And worse—how far had he already gone?