It was so hot. Everyone in the kitchen was confused as Milo ran off to get another cup of coffee.

"How does he make his coffee?" Milo asked a servant there.

The girl just pressed a button on the coffee machine. That was it, just like he did.

Milo sighed, he stood by the espresso machine for a long time. His fingers trembled slightly as he pressed the button for the eleventh time.

The high-pitched grinding of the beans felt like it was drilling directly into his brain. He watched the dark liquid drip into the porcelain cup, the steam rising to dampen his face.

He carried the tray to the desk with the precision of a tightrope walker. His shoulders were stiff, and his back still ached, but he was more concerned about the cup in his hands now.

He walked to the office again, didn’t bother to knock, walked in, and placed the cup on Salvatore’s desk.

Salvatore didn’t even look up from the ledger he was reviewing. He reached out, took a single sip, and set it back down with a frown.

"Crap," Salvatore said. "Too bitter. Make me another."

Milo felt a surge of heat rise to his face. It wasn’t just frustration, it was a deep, gnawing sense of inadequacy.

He wanted to scream that it was the same machine and the same beans he had used for the last ten cups, but the words died in his throat. He bowed his head, grabbed the cup, and walked out.

In the hallway, he nearly collided with Roderick. The man was walking toward the office. He saw the full cup in Milo’s hand and the look of utter defeat on the young man’s face.

Milo stopped and looked at Roderick.

"Sir," Milo whispered, his voice cracking. "Can you tell me... is Mr. Portello testing me again? I’m so confused. Why does he want me to make the same coffee over and over? None of them satisfy him. I feel like I’m going crazy."

Roderick looked at Milo and smiled. He hadn’t expected the young man to ask him that way. At least Milo had some courage now.

A small, subtle smile touched Roderick’s lips.

"Well, I don’t know about that," Roderick said, his tone casual. "Did you try to say no?"

Milo froze. He stared at the dark coffee in the cup. The lesson from the previous night flashed through his mind.

He hadn’t said it. He had fallen right back into the habit of the "good boy," the obedient servant who thought that if he just tried harder, his master would finally be happy.

Milo’s eyes widened. A small, desperate grin appeared on his face.

"Thank you," he whispered. He needed to try it.

He turned on his heel and walked back into the office. Roderick followed him because he wanted to talk to Salvatore too.

Inside, Salvatore was still writing. The room was silent except for the scratching of his pen.

Milo walked to the desk and placed the coffee back in front of Salvatore.

"Sir," Milo began, his voice low and nervous. "I—I won’t make a new one."

The scratching of the pen didn’t stop. The silence in the room grew heavy, pressing against Milo’s chest. His knees felt like they were made of water, and he had to grip the tray with both hands to keep from dropping it.

He looked at the side of Salvatore’s handsome face, praying for the man to say something.

Five minutes passed. Salvatore didn’t move. He just sat there, staring at the paper in front of him. To Milo, it felt like an eternity. He felt the sweat beginning to prickle at his hairline.

Finally, Salvatore looked up. He turned his chair slowly, his gray eyes locking onto Milo’s face.

Milo’s resolve shattered instantly. He looked down at the floor, his heart pounding.

"Why?" Salvatore asked. The question was a low rumble.

Milo opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The "no" was there, but the fear was still louder.

He looked down. Silence.

"So," Salvatore prompted, leaning forward, "will you make me another one or not?"

Milo took a deep breath. He tried to summon the defiance he had felt in the hallway, but it was gone. "I... I will try to bring you another one."

He took the cup back, turned, and practically fled to the kitchenette.

Once the door was closed, Roderick looked at Salvatore. "What is it now, Sal? He’s crying outside."

Salvatore’s expression softened into a mischievous, dark smile. He tossed his pen onto the desk. "I want to see how long it takes until he’s finally fed up."

He closed the ledger and looked back at Roderick, his face turning serious. "What happened?"

"As you suspected," Roderick said, walking closer, "Felix has a very strong connection to Nero Hartley. They attended the same university. Nero was Felix’s junior by two years, but they were quite close. There are records of them frequenting the same clubs and even sharing events back then."

Salvatore sighed, leaning back. "I knew it. It was too strange that he was so insistent on Hartley."

"And," Roderick added, his voice lowering, "you know he has feelings for you. I’ve noticed he’s been getting more cocky and aggressive since Milo arrived. I’ve never seen him like that."

Salvatore rubbed his temples. "What’s wrong with him? I’ve been clear with him for years."

"What will you do?" Roderick asked. "Do you have a plan for him?"

Salvatore fell silent, deep in thought. Felix had been with him through the bloodiest years. He had saved Salvatore’s life many times.

There was a debt there, a bond of brotherhood that Salvatore didn’t take lightly. But Felix’s obsession was becoming a liability.

"I’ll think about it later," Salvatore said. "For now, take care of Hartley. I can’t trust him."

The hours ticked by. They kept talking about many things. Salvatore had the chance to refuse Milo’s coffee many times.

By the time Milo brought in the fifteenth cup of coffee, he looked like a ghost. His shoulders were slumped forward.

Roderick gave Milo a sympathetic smile as the boy placed the cup on the desk. He then walked out of the room.

Milo didn’t move away this time. He stood there, staring at the cup.

Salvatore took a sip. He made a face and pushed the cup away. "I said I don’t like it. Can’t you make a good cup of coffee, Milo? It’s a simple task."

Milo let out a long, ragged sigh. It was the first time he had made a sound of frustration in Salvatore’s presence. Salvatore looked up, his eyes narrowing.

"Sir," Milo said, his voice trembling with a mix of exhaustion and anger. "Please tell me what’s wrong. What could possibly be wrong with the espresso? It comes from a machine. I’ve tried different amounts of water. I’ve tried different shots. I’ve cleaned the filter every single time. But still, you don’t like it. I’m so confused."

Milo felt the sting of tears in his eyes. He wanted to give up. He wanted to lie down on the floor and sleep for a week.

"Make me another one," Salvatore said flatly.

Milo looked at him, his face crumpled with sadness. "Sir... please."

"What?"

"At least tell me what’s wrong!" Milo cried out, his voice finally breaking. "How do I pass this test? It’s so confusing and so frustrating! I’m trying to be what you want, but you keep changing the rules!"

Salvatore rested his elbows on the desk. "Are you angry with me now?"

Milo shook his head, but his body betrayed him. He slumped down, his knees hitting the floor. He stayed there, huddled on the floor. "Please tell me what I should do. I don’t want to make more coffee."

"Just make me another one," Salvatore repeated.

"I know you’ll refuse it again," Milo whispered into his knees. "I’m tired. Please... just tell me what’s wrong."

The room was silent for a long moment. Then, to Milo’s utter confusion, Salvatore began to laugh. It wasn’t a cold or mocking laugh, it was deep and genuinely amused.

Milo looked up, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "What is it, Sir?"

Salvatore chuckled and shook his head. "Okay, so it takes fifteen cups to finally make you whine. Get up."

Milo stood up slowly, his legs stiff. "What do you mean?"

Salvatore reached for the fifteenth cup and took a long, deep drink. He finished the whole thing. "Nothing wrong with it."

Milo stared at him, speechless. "Then why...?"

Salvatore leaned back. "I just like that you have your own opinion about things. I’m not always right; I don’t want my guards to just blindly accept anything I tell them to do. That doesn’t mean you have to say no all the time. It’s good to have some insight, you know. And you can’t do that if you’re afraid of me."

Milo gulped. He still felt the fear, but the confusion was starting to turn into a strange kind of understanding.

"Anyway," Salvatore added, a playful glint in his eyes, "I was just bored."

Making Milo cry was a very interesting activity for Salvatore.

Milo pouted, a small, huffy sound escaping his nose. "So it was just another test?"

"It was a test to see if you were really that dumb," Salvatore said. "It’s common sense. You just need to say what’s on your mind. If I’m being a jerk, tell me I’m being a jerk."

Salvatore stood up and walked around the desk. He looked at Milo with a satisfied expression, his gaze lingering on the young man’s face before moving down.

"By the way," Salvatore said, his voice dropping to a lower, more intimate tone, "how are your rings? Are they still painful?"

Milo shook his head, though the sudden shift in conversation made him nervous. "No... just a bit weird. They itch sometimes."

Salvatore reached out, his hand stopping just inches from Milo’s chest. The atmosphere in the room changed instantly, the professional distance evaporating.

"Let me see," Salvatore said. It wasn’t a question, it was a soft, heavy command.

Milo’s heart began to race. He looked at Salvatore’s large, calloused hand and then at the buttons of his own shirt. The memory of the closet and the sounds of Felix’s struggle were still fresh, but there was a different kind of tension now, one that made Milo’s skin feel tight.

Slowly, his fingers reached for the top button of his white shirt.