By the time my last class ended, I had mentally composed five different monologues.
All of them ended with me slamming a door and Dario looking appropriately regretful.
Unfortunately, none of them accounted for the fact that I still wasn’t sure what I wanted from him. An apology? An explanation? A handwritten emotional breakdown with bullet points?
“Are you even listening to me?” Maya waved her hand in front of my face as we walked through the parking lot. “You’ve got that glazed ‘Dario is crawling under my skin again’ look.”
I groaned. “He showed up this morning like some mafia-flavored jump scare. No warning. Just boom—kitchen, shadows, mood.”
Maya gasped. “He was in your kitchen?”
“Unannounced. Brooding. Judgy. Same outfit I swear he wore when he left.”
“What did you say?”
“I ga
