The only time I’ve seen that kind of agony was when I shattered Charlie.
“I’m good,” she says so softly that I almost miss it.
I catch Rune swallowing hard at her words, and I wonder if she’s the one withholding comfort from him.
When I glance at Rune, I expect anger for not trusting him, but instead, I catch a flicker of gratitude in his eyes.
That’s when it clicks. Her identity is revealed by the way he looks at her.
Deyanira. His ex.
He’s talked about her before, but I never knew the details. I don’t need them to see the pain hanging between them.
I draw a deep breath, their pain echoing in my chest. I nod to Rune, tap my knuckles on the counter, and head out to find Charlie.
***
Outside Grinders, I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans, nerves crackling at the thought of seeing her again.
Charlie stands beside the counter, arms folded, as she chats with one of her employees.
I can’t stop staring, searching for any sign she might be pregnant. But she’s just the same beautiful woman I’ve loved since we were kids. Untouched by time, at least in my eyes.
Drawing a deep breath, I wrap my fingers around the handle and pull it open.
Her icy eyes lock onto mine, sending a rush of warmth through my veins. Something shifts in my chest as she holds my gaze, like hope flickering to life.
My skin tingles with the ache for her touch, every nerve alive with memory.
I could swear I catch a flicker of desire in her eyes, but it vanishes before I can be sure it was ever there.
Every part of me aches to close the distance, but I force myself to move slowly, careful not to shatter the fragile peace between us.
Every time she stands in front of me, it feels like a dream I could wake from at any second, never knowing if it’s the last time I’ll see her like this.
"Hey," I manage, stuffing my hands in my pockets to stop myself from reaching for her.
Her face is blank as she stares at me.
I rub the back of my neck, trying to ease the itch her stare leaves burning beneath my skin.
Charlie doesn’t give anything away, unlike the last time I stood before her.
“I’ll grab us a coffee. Go on over to that back corner booth,” she says abruptly.
Coffee’s a good sign, right? She wouldn’t be drinking it if she were pregnant.
I don’t think.
Unless it’s decaf. Maybe.
I tamp down any flicker of hope as I make my way to the booth she pointed out.
It’s tucked in the back, away from the crowd. Private enough for honesty, public enough for her to feel safe, like a confession booth for two.
My knee bounces under the table as I shred a napkin to ribbons. The wait is only minutes, but it gnaws at me, sending my nerves into a tailspin.
It feels like a lifetime before she returns.
