Morning Shift with Mister Mysterious

Marina

I’m not gonna lie — I barely slept.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw dollar signs and dark suits and that folder snapping shut like a mousetrap.

But here I am.

7:58 AM. Standing in front of that mansion again like some culinary tribute to the mafia gods.

The same driver gives me the same silent nod when I get in.

The same gates swallow us whole.

And my stomach does this fun little somersault as I clutch my cheap tote bag like it’s a lucky charm.

What am I even doing?

But it’s too late to back out now.

Because $10,000 says I’m showing up.

And apparently, when scary rich people say “8AM,” they mean 8AM.

So when I’m dropped off at the side entrance again, I make a beeline for the kitchen — shoes squeaking, heart hammering, and already mentally planning breakfast.

Eggs. Pancakes. Nothing fancy. Keep it safe, Marina. Keep it simple—

I freeze halfway through the door.

Because he’s there.

The man from the office.

The one in the shades.

Mister too-perfect face. Mister silent authority.

Standing in the middle of my new kitchen like he belongs there.

He’s by the counter, reaching for the fancy coffee machine — and it hits me immediately that there’s something off about the way he moves.

Slow. Careful.

Each step measured like he’s… counting?

His hand brushes the counter first before he shifts sideways, fingers trailing lightly until they find the handle of the machine.

My mouth goes dry.

I should say something.

But my brain is short-circuiting watching this weirdly graceful, slightly eerie routine.

“Uh… morning,” I manage finally, my voice coming out way too small.

His head turns toward me — just a fraction — and I swear, even behind those dark lenses, I feel his gaze land on me like a warm weight.

“Good morning, Miss Russo,” he says softly.

And that voice — low, calm, a little rough like sandpaper — makes my insides do an embarrassing little flutter.

Cool. Great. So now I’m crushing on mysterious, probably dangerous, coffee-making rich guy.

Awesome job, Marina. Really nailing adulthood today.

I clear my throat and shuffle further inside, dropping my bag on a chair like I totally belong here.

“Just… gonna start breakfast. You know. Work and stuff.”

No answer.

Just the quiet hiss of the coffee machine and the soft clink of ceramic as he sets a cup down.

But as I start unpacking ingredients — eggs, flour, some berries I spotted in the fridge yesterday — I can’t help sneaking glances at him.

Because he’s still moving slow. Still careful.

Like every step is pre-planned.

Like he’s mapping out the kitchen in his head.

And yeah, okay, that’s weird.

But my brain, running on stress and zero sleep, decides to brush it off.

Rich people are eccentric. Maybe he’s just one of those mindfulness types. Yoga at dawn, walk like you’re floating — whatever.

I start cracking eggs, pretending not to be hyper-aware of the man standing ten feet away.

Pretending I’m totally fine and not cooking in a kitchen that costs more than my entire student debt.

“Do you prefer to work alone?”

His voice cuts through the air so suddenly I nearly drop an egg.

“Wh-what?” I stammer, turning to face him.

He’s leaning against the counter now, coffee cup in hand, head tilted slightly like he’s genuinely curious.

Or maybe just amused at watching me flail like a caffeinated squirrel.

“Some chefs prefer privacy while they cook,” he says, voice still that same calm rumble. “If my presence makes you uncomfortable, I can leave.”

My brain short-circuits again because — is this man actually being polite? In this murder-mansion?

“No, no, it’s fine!” I blurt. “I mean, it’s your kitchen. Well, technically, not your kitchen, but like… you live here, so… yeah. Totally fine. Stay. Coffee. Kitchen. All good.”

Kill me now.

His lips twitch. Not quite a smile. But enough that something warm flickers in my chest.

“Very well,” he says simply, taking another sip of his coffee.

I turn back to the stove, cheeks burning.

And I swear, for a second, the kitchen feels warmer. Not just from the heat — but from him.

This man who moves like he’s counting every inch of space… who watches without watching…

And who somehow makes me feel like maybe, just maybe, I’m not completely out of place here.

Even if my brain is screaming that I absolutely am.

I try to focus on my chopping.

Really, I do.

But I can feel his presence behind me like static in the air — quiet, steady, impossible to ignore.

Every time my knife hits the cutting board, I swear I hear him breathing. Slow and even.

And then —

I freeze mid-slice because I hear the soft scrape of shoes against tile.

He’s moving.

Closer.

My heart does this stupid, panicked little leap, and my brain starts firing off nonsense like, he’s right there he’s right there don’t do anything weird.

I pretend I’m totally calm.

Which is a lie.

I keep my eyes on the tomatoes I’m slicing, even as I feel him come to stand just to my right — not close enough to touch, but close enough that the air shifts between us.

And then, I feel more than see him lean slightly forward.

His hand — long fingers, steady and sure — reaches out and brushes lightly over the veggies I’ve already chopped.

What the—

My brain does a backflip.

Because normal people don’t just… feel food like that, right?

But again, my survival instincts kick in and slap a sticky note over the thought:

Rich people. Eccentric. Don’t question it, Marina.

“Your cuts are good,” he says quietly.

His voice is lower now. Closer. And way too calm for my racing pulse.

“But,” he continues, fingers drifting lightly over a piece of bell pepper, “slice the vegetables a bit smaller. More uniform. It makes the flavors balance better when they cook.”

I swallow hard.

Because, okay. That’s not scary. That’s…

That’s kitchen advice. Normal.

Except my hands are sweating like I’m defusing a bomb.

“Y-yeah. Sure. Got it,” I mumble, nodding too fast. “Smaller. More balanced. Yep.”

He lingers for a breath longer.

Just long enough that my skin starts prickling like I’m standing too close to a live wire.

And then —

He steps back.

Smooth and silent, like he was never there.

His shoes whisper against the tile as he turns away.

“Enjoy your morning, Miss Russo,” he says over his shoulder, that calm rumble wrapping around me like velvet.

And then he’s gone.

Out of the kitchen.

Leaving me standing there, knife in hand, pulse somewhere up in my throat.

I stare down at the veggies like they personally offended me.

“Cool. Yep. Normal morning,” I mutter, slicing one poor tomato a little too aggressively. “Just me, cooking for mysterious rich guys who ghost through rooms and feel vegetables like it’s fine dining ASMR.”

I huff out a breath, trying to shake off the weird buzz under my skin.

But even as I chop smaller — exactly like he said — I can’t get the feel of his presence out of my head.

Or the way he moved.

Slow. Measured. Calculated.

Like every step he took had already been mapped out.