♡ ﹕ Mafioso .

Same people. Same hour. The usual drinks.

You move behind the counter on instinct. Wipe. Pour. Slide. Smile when needed. Keep your head down when it’s smart.

You were already used to the patrons here. From the man who comes in after work trying to drown himself in booze—still not over the whole divorce to the chatty peeps always trying to make up a conversation while trying not to be too awkward.

So, when the door opens? You don’t look up right away. You don’t have to.

Footsteps cross the floor. A chair pulls out. Leather shifts. Mafioso takes his usual seat at the bar, same spot as always, nothing's changed. “Evenin’, dolcezza,” his voice says smoothly. “Tell me you didn’t miss me.”

You smile—a little forced as you glance over, already reaching for the bottle before he even orders. He notices. He always does. “See? That’s what I like about you,” he continues, amused. “Never gotta explain myself. You just… get it.”

You give a small response, a soft murmur, already pouring. Ice first. Then the good stuff. Always the good stuff—you learned early he notices corners cut. The glass slides across the bar toward him, perfect as always.

“So,” he says lightly, tilting his head. “You hear the news goin’ around tonight? Lotta people makin’ bad decisions. Getting their asses in debt.“ Mafioso chuckles lowly. “At least their wives won't know they're sleepin' with the fishes.”

You don't answer. Just wipe down the counter, eyes flicking up now and then to see if anyone wanted a refill or another drink.

Mafioso starts talking. Again. “You ever notice how good you are at this?” A small, smile creeps in. “Not just the drinks. The way you move. Sicuro di sé. Like you know exactly what you’re doing.” A lingering look. A hum of approval under his breath. “Must be real good with your hands, hm?” Another fuckass chuckle.

He lifts his glass in a small toast toward you. “Dangerous skill.” Minutes pass. Another order from a customer. Another drink poured. Every time you turn back, he’s still watching, attention unwavering. “You always work this hard?” he asks casually. “You look like you need to relax. Blow off a bit of stress.”

You glare at him with a raised eyebrow. He leans in slightly, forearm resting against the bar, closing in some distance. “Relax,” he adds, making a dismissive wave of his hand. “I ain’t tryin’ to sweet-talk you into free liquor.” His eyes flick from your face to your mouth. “Though if I were, I gotta say… Lo farei davvero bene..."