I release him roughly, stepping back.
“Alright, alright, message received. Your boy’s off-limits.” He adjusts his jacket, watching me with that maddening glint in his eyes. “His name’s Lucas. Works at the 24-hour book café outside Blackwoods.”
I don’t tell him I already know. That I tracked the boy down the same night, piecing it together from the cafe shirt he wore.
“You should do something about him, though,” Maksim calls over his shoulder as he saunters toward the barn door. “He’s a witness. He might talk. Last thing I want is my favorite big brother rotting in a cell—that’d make me really, really sad.”
My head throbs, the beginnings of a headache pulsing behind my eyes.
He glances back one last time, eyes dancing. “This is gonna be fun.”
I ignore him, turning back to Apollo. My hand presses against the stallion’s neck, grounding myself in his steady warmth.
Apollo snorts again, as if he knows.
And for the first time in a very long time, I wonder what the fuck I’m getting myself into.
* * *
The bell above the door gives a soft chime as I push into the café. The air greets me at once—freshly brewed coffee layered with the faint musk of paper and ink, an aged sweetness that clings to the walls lined with bookshelves. Light filters through tall windows, catching on the faint swirl of milk froth in someone’s mug. A spoon clinks against porcelain. A chair scrapes. A page turns. The hum of quiet conversation stays low, polite, almost reverent.
I don’t care for any of it, I am only here for him.
Lucas.
He hasn’t seen me yet. His head is bowed slightly, curls falling over his forehead as he works behind the counter. His hands move with quiet precision, arranging a pastry on a porcelain plate, sliding it forward with careful, deliberate ease. His movements are gentle and polite, but look rehearsed.
He’s smaller than I remembered, though maybe memory lies. Or perhaps it’s just that I remember him differently—frozen in an alleyway, the dim orange of a streetlamp carving his face from the dark. Those wide eyes locked on mine, startled, unblinking, impossible to forget.
Now, under the café’s softer glow, he looks different. Livelier, yet still fragile. His hair is a mess of golden curls, fuller, wilder than before, catching the light every time he turns his head. A dusting of freckles spills across his nose and cheekbones, softening the sharpness of his features. He shouldn’t look this delicate. He shouldn’t look this striking.
I step forward.
And I see his shoulders stiffen before he even looks up, like he feels me first, some instinct sparking before recognition. He freezes mid-motion, mid-breath, and then, slowly, his gaze lifts.
Those eyes find mine. And I know he remembers.
His throat works as he swallows, lips parting slightly, as if he wants to say something but knows he won’t. Knows he can’t. His fingers twitch at his sides, betraying the composure he’s struggling to keep.
He’s nervous.
And I don’t know if it’s because of me… or because of what I did that night.
Either way, I like it.
TWO
LUCAS
I stand behind the counter, trying not to scowl every time Megan leans too close, invading my space with her chatter. If I could scream in her face, maybe I would. But I can’t anyway.
The heaviness in my chest is always there, a weight embedded in me, pressing down on my lungs, on my skin, on everything. Some days, I can push it into the background, pretend it’s not there. Today isn’t one of those days. Today, it feels like I’m drowning in it.
The world is loud—not in sound, but in presence. The hum of students’ laughter, the rustle of pages, the hiss and grind of the espresso machine. I can’t truly hear it, not fully, not clearly, but I feel it. It presses at the edges of my awareness like static, blurring one thing into the next until it’s all just noise.
I glance around the café—velvet armchairs, polished tables, bookshelves stacked with spines meant to look casual but curated for wealth. This place isn’t for people like me. It’s for the rich kids who grew up knowing exactly where they belong. They sit in clusters, designer bags spilling off chairs, laughing easily over their overpriced lattes. They belong in the noise.
Me? I belong in the silence. In the corner no one looks at in the space between words.
