Off the books. Off the calendar. No public record.
Filepe swept the perimeter twice. Staged exits. Confirmed there were no street cameras with eyes on the building. The whole paranoid playbook.
She might not show.
Probably won’t show.
But I had to try.
For Ben. For myself. For whatever scraps of us might still exist under all the damage.
Jag opens the door. “She’s inside. Back corner booth. Her brother’s with her.”
My heart kicks against my ribs.
She came.
I adjust the N95 mask. Pull the cap lower. Then exit the vehicle.
I enter the café. It’s small, and I spot them almost immediately.
Back corner booth like Jag said. Jess is staring at her phone. Ethan sits across from her, arms crossed, jaw tight. Protective brother mode fullyengaged.
His knuckles are healed. No visible marks from our fight.
Mine aren’t.
Jess’s hair is pulled back. She’s wearing jeans and a slightly oversized sweater.
She looks tired. Worn down. The kind of exhaustion that comes from carrying weight she was never meant to hold alone.
I did that to her.
I move toward the booth. My shoulder protests with every swing of my arm.
Ethan sees me first. His whole body goes rigid.
Then Jess looks up and sees me.
Her expression instantly hardens. Walls going up behind those eyes that used to look at me with something softer.
She starts to stand.
“I can’t do this,” she says quietly.
Fuck.
She’s leaving.
Already.
Won’t even give me a chance.
But I already know why...
The mask.
I can’t hide.
