And I have no idea if I’ll survive it.
4
SIERRA
The rooftop baris already humming when I clock in, and I’m grateful for the distraction. String lights sway overhead in the warm breeze, casting soft golden pools across the polished counter. I tie my apron, roll my shoulders, and step behind the bar.
Then I see him.
End of the bar. Same seat as last night. Same intense stillness, like a predator waiting in tall grass.
The man from outside the coffee shop.
My stomach does something complicated. Part dread, part curiosity, part something else I refuse to name.
So much for coincidence.
I’m glad I wore this shirt tonight. Three-quarter sleeves that cover the bruises Viktor left on my arm, which have darkened overnight into ugly purple-green shadows. The last thing I need is questions. From customers. From this stranger who watches me like he’s filing away details for later use.
I paste on my bartender smile and approach him. “Welcome back.”
His eyes find mine with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. He’s not checking me out. This is something else.
“Should I get you another Coke?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
One word. Practically a grunt.
Okay, then.
I glance at him as I fill his glass. “So, are you thinking about becoming a regular? Because if you are, I should probably catch your name.”
I’m not sure why I ask. Maybe because information feels like power, and right now, I have none.
“Matteo.”
I smile, secretly wondering if I’m going to have to remember that name while filing a police report.
Still, I default to friendly. It’s my armor, my autopilot, the thing I do when I don’t know what else to do. Over the next hour, I swap out empty glasses for full ones and attempt conversation.
“Where are you from?”
Nothing.
“Meeting anyone tonight?”
A grunt that could mean anything.
“Nice weather, right?”
That one’s actually a lie. It’s brutal tonight. The desert usually cools down after sunset, but the heat is sticking around like an uninvited guest. Of course this happens the one night I decided to cover up.
Sweat prickles at the back of my neck. I ignore it.
Matteo doesn’t engage. Doesn’t offer anything. Just sits there, all brooding silence and coiled tension, those blue eyes tracking my every move.
It should creep me out. It does creep me out.
