"They will. Mrs. Bonitez is going to cry. Fair warning." He reaches across the counter and squeezes my arm—casual, friendly, the kind of touch that means absolutely nothing. But his hand is warm, and his smile is genuine, and I realize I'm leaning forward slightly, relaxed in a
way I haven't been in days.
"I'll text you the details," he says. "Same number?"
"Same number."
"Perfect." He squeezes my arm once more before letting go. "Hey, thank you. Really. I know you're busy, but this means a lot. To me. To the program. To—" He stops. "Just—thank you."
"You're welcome."
He grabs his coffee cup—the one he apparently thinks is terrible—and heads toward the door. But halfway there, he turns back. "Hey, Thea?"
"Yeah?"
"You seem different today. More like yourself." His expression is thoughtful. "It's good to see."
Then he's gone, the bell chiming behind him, and I'm standing here with that warm, simple feeling still glowing in my chest.
I turn back to my napkin dispensers, still smiling.
And that's when I see him.
Santino.
He's standing. Just—standing. Beside his booth, his coffee cup gripped in one hand, his jaw tight. And he's staring at me with an expression that makes something in my stomach drop.
Raw. Undisguised. Burning in those dark eyes like fire.
For a second—just one second—the mask is completely gone. And what's underneath is something fierce and possessive and so intense it makes me take a step back.
Then the mask slams back into place.
He walks to the register. Sets down money. Doesn't look at me. Doesn't say a word.
Just leaves.
THE REST OF MY SHIFTpasses in a blur.
By closing time, I'm the only one left. Gail went home early. Jolie had class. It's just me, wiping down tables and counting chairs (fourteen) and trying not to think about the way Santino looked at me when Warren was here.
I lock the front door. Turn off the lights. Grab my coat from the back.
The February air hits me when I step outside, cold and sharp and exactly what I need to clear my head. I pull my coat tighter and start walking.
Fourteen steps to the sidewalk. Forty-three streetlights between here and my apartment. I start counting.
One. Two. Three.
"Thea."
I freeze.
He's leaning against the building. Hands in his pockets. Snow dusting his shoulders. And his expression—
The mask is gone.
"Santino." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "What are you doing here?"
