“Make it yourself. With your own hands.”
His voice dropped—low, commanding.
“Go.”
I stared at him a heartbeat longer, taking in the weight behind the words.
Slowly, I inhaled.
Then I nodded once—without argument.
Without hesitation.
I slipped from the bed, bare feet brushing the carpet, the silk of my nightgown trailing behind me like a ghost of myself.
The moment the door clicked shut, the air shifted.
Corridors stretched endlessly, swallowed by shadow.
Moonlight cut through the tall windows in thin, silver bars, laying patterns across marble floors like prison markings.
I moved through it by memory alone.
Down the east staircase. Past the dining room.
Into the kitchen.
The industrial space was massive.
The espresso machine sat on the counter like something foreign.
I stared at it for a long moment.
Ten seconds. Maybe more.
Then I exhaled and reached for the beans.
My hands moved carefully as I measured the beans, but the moment I pressed the grinder—the noise shattered the silence.
Too loud.
I flinched slightly, my shoulders tensing as the machine roared to life.
Every sound in this house felt amplified at night.
Like it was meant to be heard.
I forced myself to focus.
Poured the grounds into the portafilter.
It slipped. I caught it.
Barely.
My grip tightened.
I tamped. Too hard.
