And somehow, I’m still thinking about someone else entirely.
A receptionist. Tired eyes, unsteady hands, fear she couldn’t quite hide—and beneath it, a refusal to fold.
That’s what sticks.
I lean back slightly, considering it.
There are ways to deal with this. Clean ones. Simple ones.
I don’t reach for them.
I’m curious.
And I’m selfish—always have been.
Because I want to see how far it goes—what happens when someone like her is left in a place like this, under pressure she doesn’t fully understand yet.
Does she bend? Break?
Or does she surprise me?
A knock interrupts the thought.
“Come in.”
She steps inside with a stack of papers—afternoon correspondence, neatly organized. She sets them down without looking at me, already turning to leave.
“Mendez.”
She stops but doesn’t turn.
“Yes?”
“The coffee this morning.” I let the pause stretch just enough. “It was… fucking adequate.”
A beat of silence.
“Thank you… Raffaele.”
Still forced. Still costing her.
Good.
She leaves, the door closing softly behind her.
I’m alone again—with the files, the city beyond the glass, and the quiet, irritating awareness that something has shifted.
Something I can’t name and can’t control.
Yet.
Which is fascinating.
And fucking inconvenient.
3
BEA
