And then the thought comes. The one that always does.
Men like him don’t want women like me.
Not really.
I’m too soft. Too round. Too noticeable in all the wrong ways. My body doesn’t shrink. It speaks. It takes up space I’ve been told my whole life to minimize.
I can hear the voices even now.
Too much.
Too soft.
Not worth wanting.
I swallow it down and paste on my safe smile.
“Morning.”
His gaze lifts. Not to my chest. Not to my curves.
To my hands.
It makes my heart stutter.
I pull my sleeves down another inch without thinking.
He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t ask. But something flashes in his eyes. A shadow. A shift. Like he saw more than I meant to give.
Then it’s gone. Masked behind calm.
“Morning,” he says.
His voice is low, gravel-smooth, and when it hits, I feel iteverywhere.
“Same as usual?” I ask, my voice thinner than I want.
He nods. “Yeah.”
It should be normal. Coffee, money, done.
Butnothingabout this man feels normal.
I turn to the machine, grateful for the cover. My hands move like muscle memory.
Espresso. Milk. Syrup. Lid.
I set the cup down.
He reaches. His fingers brush mine.
It’s barely a touch. A flicker.
But it shoots through me like alive wire.
I suck in a breath.
His eyes narrow slightly, like he caught it. Like he filed my reaction somewhere deep and private.
