REINA
The plates were still warm when I slid them into the dishwasher. Steam curled upward from the edges, carrying the buttery scent of eggs and toasted bread. I was grateful for the mundane task—it gave me something to focus on, something ordinary to keep my hands busy while my mind raced in dangerous directions.
Behind me, I felt him. Not like a shadow in the corner or a movement in my peripheral vision. No, Domenico was there in that insistent, physical way he always managed—so close I could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint trace of his cologne lingering in the air. My muscles tensed, reflexively, and I had to remind myself to breathe.
“I’ll wash,” he said softly, low enough that I almost didn’t hear it.
I shook my head without looking over my shoulder. “You cooked.
