A few minutes later, I feel someone slide into the seat beside me. Nathan, his own mug steaming between his hands.
"You want to talk about it?" he asks, voice low enough that the others can't hear.
I stare into my coffee. Nathan isn't usually the one who pries. He's the quiet one, the steady presence who notices everything but says little. Which means my distress must be painfully obvious.
"It's nothing," I say automatically. Then, because it's Nathan asking: "I woke up alone."
He nods, unsurprised. "And you're spiraling."
It's not a question. I look at him sharply, but there's no judgment in his expression, just calm understanding.
"I'm not spiraling," I protest weakly. "I'm just—"
"Convinced she regrets everything and is probably planning to move to another state to avoid ever seeing you again?" There's the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes.
I exhale slowly. "Something like that."
Nathan takes a deliberate sip of his coffee. "Go find her, Logan. Let Savannah speak for herself."
"What if she doesn't want to see me?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
Nathan's expression softens slightly. "Then at least you'll know. But you won't know anything sitting here catastrophizing it."
He's right. Of course he's right. I drain my mug, set it down with more force than necessary, and stand.
"Thanks," I tell him, meaning it.
He nods, already turning back to his newspaper. "Don't overthink it."
Easier said than done.
The morning air hits cold and sharp as I step outside, a reminder that winter is settling in earnest over Whitetail Falls. The sky is clear, almost painfully blue, sunlight gleaming off fresh snow that fell overnight. Everything looks too bright, too pristine for how raw I feel inside.
I walk briskly toward Main Street, hands shoved deep in my pockets, breath clouding before me. With each step, the knot in my stomach tightens. What if she won't even talk to me? What if she pretends nothing happened? What if—
I force myself to stop that train of thought. Nathan's right. I need to let Savannah speak for herself.
The bell above the door jingles as I push it open, the sound almost offensively cheerful. The shop is busy but not crowded, a few tables occupied by morning regulars, the counter line only two people deep. The air smells of fresh bread, coffee, and cinnamon, warm and inviting despite my anxiety.
And then I see her.
Savannah stands behind the glass display case, arranging pastries with delicate fingers. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. There's a smudge of flour on her face, just like yesterday morning when all this began. She looks up at the sound of the bell, and our eyes meet across the room.
For a fraction of a second, something flashes across her face—recognition, surprise, maybe even pleasure. Then just as quickly, she looks away, focusing intently on the pastry arrangement before her.
I wait my turn in line, watching her serve customers with professional efficiency. Her smile is warm but doesn't quite reach her eyes.
When I finally reach the counter, her eyes dart everywhere but mine.
"Good morning," she says, the greeting so removed it makes my chest ache. "What can I get you?"
As if we're strangers. As if last night never happened. As if I hadn't woken this morning still carrying the imprint of her body against mine.
"Can we talk?" I ask quietly, aware of the customers at nearby tables, the teenage barista watching us with poorly disguised interest.
Savannah's fingers twist the edge of her apron. "I'm working."
"I know. Just... five minutes? Please?"
