By the time I got home, my brain was fried. Between Maya’s sass and my own inability to make a decision without spiraling into a Shakespearean-level internal monologue, I needed a break.
What I didn’t need?
Dario standing in the hallway like a damn storm cloud in human form, arms crossed, expression unreadable—but eyes locked on me like I was already in trouble.
“You’re late,” he said.
“I wasn’t aware I had a curfew,” I replied, dropping my bag by the door and toeing off my shoes.
He didn’t move. “I was waiting.”
“Okay, now you sound like a disappointed dad. Should I have texted?” I gave him my best smile. The one I used when I was trying not to admit how fast my heart started beating every time he looked at me like that.
“You should’ve done a lot of things,” he said coolly, steppin
