Then, second-guessing myself—too soft.
I paused.
Adjusted. Pressed again.
The espresso machine hissed when I locked it in place.
Then came the extraction.
The first drops were slow.
Thick. Dark.
I frowned slightly.
It was already wrong.
I could tell.
But I didn’t stop it.
I watched as the cup filled with bitter, over-extracted espresso.
Then reached for the milk.
Steamed it carefully.
Or tried to.
The steam wand sputtered slightly as I adjusted it, the milk frothing unevenly before collapsing almost immediately.
I stared at the cup.
A disaster. But it was done.
I didn’t have the luxury of perfection.
Only compliance.
I placed the cup onto the saucer. Then onto the tray.
Added the spoon.
Lifted the silver tray with both hands.
And turned back toward the stairs.
The house seemed quieter now. Or maybe I was just more aware.
Every step echoed faintly against the walls as I climbed.
Halfway up the main staircase—I heard footsteps.
Quick. Urgent. Coming down.
My grip on the tray tightened slightly.
I looked up just in time to see Chiara.
