Still Lo.
“Are you okay?” I ask, softer now.
Her expression flickers. “Define ‘okay.’”
I huff a small laugh, even though nothing about this feels funny. “Alive?”
“Barely.”
I want to wrap her in a blanket. I want to buy her a hot chocolate. I want to take her across the street to the gas station and get her a pack of her favorite gummy bears. Are they still her favorite?
I want to go back in time and stop her from ever leaving this place broken and alone. I want to ask her where she’s been, what happened, why she never called.
But I don’t.
Because Lo’s standing in front of me, her eyes darting around like she might bolt at any second.
I take a step back, just enough to give her space, but not so much that it feels like I’m letting her go.
The Omega my Beta heart has already claimed.
“Come on,” I say, tipping my head toward the café across the square. “Let me buy you a cup of something hot. Not from the festival stands, don’t worry. Let’s go to the café.”
Lo hesitates. Her weight shifts, and I worry she might say no.
Her arms are still crossed, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands. But then, maybe just to get out of the spotlight, or maybe because it’s me, she gives the smallest nod.
We cross the square side by side, and I can feel it, every single head turning. Conversations dip. Laughter stalls. Everyone seems to want to have a look.
Lo Marsh,the town seems to murmur in unison.Public enemy number one returns and walks into Honeysuckle Brew with Hayes Whitlock like it’s just another day.
I hold the door open. She ducks her head and slips past me in my shadow. I follow.
The café smells of vanilla syrup and fresh espresso. We used to come here every Thursday after school. She always got a root beer float and argued with the barista because it wasn’ttechnicallyon the menu.
Today, she just orders black coffee.
I do the same. No frills. No fuss.
We slide into the booth by the window—our old booth, whether she remembers that or not—and I hand her a peppermint stick from the stash I keep in my coat pocket.
She blinks at it. “You still carry these?”
“Helps with stress,” I say, tapping mine against the table. “And moments when a long-lost best friend crashes into you like a badly timed meet-cute.”
That earns me the ghost of a smile. Just a flicker. But it’s something…
“I didn’t mean to crash,” she murmurs, tracing the rim of her coffee mug. “It’s just… this place. It’s loud.”
“It always was.”
“Yeah. But it’s louder now.”
I watch her for a moment, try not to drink in every detail like a man dying of thirst.
Her fingers tremble when she lifts her mug. She keeps her eyes on the table, and I can tell she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
For me to ask her why. Where she went. What she did.
