“Affogato After Dark: A Steam & Espresso Romance”

The bell over the door jingled like a warning.

Valentina didn’t look up right away—too focused on drizzling dark espresso over a swirl of vanilla gelato, the affogato steaming gently under the café lights. It was her ritual at closing. One last indulgence before locking up. But the cologne hit her before the voice did—warm spice and bad intentions.

“You always end the night this sweet?” he asked, leaning on the marble counter like he already owned the place.

She gave him a look. “Some of us still earn our espresso.”

Elias Hart—real estate prince, developer, corporate parasite. His firm had made three offers to buy her building this month. She’d ignored all of them.

But tonight, he came in person.

“I’m not here to talk business,” he said, glancing around her tiny, candle-lit gelateria. “Not officially.”

She set the affogato down and crossed her arms. “Unofficially?”

“I’m here for dessert. And a deal.”

She raised one brow. “Do I look like I sell myself with my sundaes?”

He smirked. “You tell me. One night. You show me why this place is so special. Just one night of whatever you consider pleasure. If I leave unconvinced, I walk away from the deal. Forever.”

She considered him for a beat. Then dipped a spoon into the glass.

“Follow me.”

—

They started with gelato—of course. Tiramisu, pistachio, blood orange. She let him taste each one slowly, a little too intimately, the spoon brushing his lips like a dare. They stood behind the counter. Close. Closer.

Then she brewed espresso—real espresso—on her old La Marzocco. The hiss of steam, the sharp scent curling between them. She poured two shots, then slid hers into a dish of stracciatella. He watched the dark liquid melt the edges of cream.

“Italians call this affogato,” she whispered, “because it means drowned.”

“Is that how I’ll feel by the end of tonight?”

“If I do it right.”

—

He didn’t kiss her until they were on the rooftop.

The café’s upper terrace overlooked the sleepy streetlights of the old neighborhood. She brought a candle. He brought his mouth. And when their lips finally met—caffeinated, sugar-slicked, slow—it was less business, more religion.

He tasted like espresso and heat.

She pulled him close by his tie, and he let her take control. For once.

—

By dawn, he lay on the terrace floor, shirt unbuttoned, watching her eat the last spoonful of gelato from the carton.

“I see why you won’t sell,” he said.

She didn’t reply. Just slid the spoon into her mouth and smiled around it.

“I’ll tell my team to back off.”

“I know,” she said.

And she did.

Because the man who just surrendered his entire plan for one night of dessert and pleasure?

Was already addicted.