The house was too quiet for a Saturday.
No clinking dishes. No muted gunmetal voice issuing sarcastic commands. No footsteps. No tension humming through the walls like a storm was waiting for me to breathe wrong.
Just me. In Dario’s shirt. In Dario’s kitchen. Feeling like a damn i***t.
The shirt still smelled like him. Which, yes, I knew was pathetic to notice—but it did. That faint, sinful blend of cedar and danger and whatever cologne smelled like power and very bad decisions.
I should’ve taken it off.
I didn’t.
Instead, I shuffled barefoot to the counter, dragging my fingers along the cold marble, only to find a single coffee mug waiting beside the pot.
Not two.
Just one.
Beneath it, a note.
“Out. Don’t wait up.”
No “good morning.” No “I made breakfast.” No cocky smirk, no ‘p
