The café was nearly silent—just the soft clink of mugs being stacked, the rhythmic swish of a mop against the tile. I leaned against the counter, twirling a teaspoon between my fingers, watching her work. She looked peaceful like that. Focused. Comfortable.

God, she had no idea.

“I have something to tell you,” I said, my voice low but steady.

She looked up, one brow raised. “Yeah?”

I smiled a little, setting the spoon down with a soft clatter. “I’m a serial killer.”

She blinked. Paused for just a second. And then—she laughed, like I just said I forgot her birthday or spilled coffee on my shirt.

“Oh yeah? That’s cool. What technique you usually use to murder?” she asked, still wiping down the espresso machine with the same calm, lazy grace.

I stared at her, stunned for the first time in months. Maybe ever. No fear. No judgment. Just curiosity.

My heart did something strange—tightened, twisted. Not from guilt, not from nerves. From something else entirely. She was... different. And maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to pretend around her anymore.