“You okay?” he asked, like he already knew.
“Define okay,” I said, and he smiled because he couldn’t help it.
We drove to the overlook above the river. The town looked like a model; mill, steeple, the long dark ribbon of water. In the truck, our shoulders touched lightly, like we could trick our bodies into thinking we meant to.
“My dad’s on a rant about ‘duty,’” he said. “Like it’s a uniform you can’t take off.”
“My dad keeps saying ‘legacy,’” I answered. “Like it’s a chain and we’re supposed to call it jewelry.”
“We sound like terrible poetry.”
“Worse,” I said, and leaned across the bench seat. The first kiss was quick and sure; the second wasn’t. Sweatshirt gone. Hands under his tee. My name rough in his mouth. He touched my face like he needed proof I wasn’t going to break. I let him. I was tired of grief telling me how to move. How to live. Yet it beat inside me since I lost Mom. But now, with his lips on mine, it all faded to background noise.
“Tell me if you want to stop,” he said, voice almost steady.
“I will.” I meant it. We learned each other fast and careful as windows fogged, a laugh caught in my throat when my knee knocked the gearshift. We didn’t jump a line we weren’t ready to cross. We went exactly to the place that belonged to us and stayed there until the clock on the dash said it was time for me to go home or face my brother’s wrath, since Olivier thought he was my father and not my brother.
After, we watched the town lights and he traced my freckles with a knuckle. “I like these.”
“They make me look twelve.”
“They make you look like you,” he said, and kissed each one like a signature.
We didn’t plan the next time. We didn’t need to. We kept finding the gaps where our fathers couldn’t see.
The kettle switch clicked down; steam fogged the window for a second. I wrapped the tea string around my finger and let the heat sting. Good memories shouldn’t ache. They did anyway.
My phone buzzed. For a breath I hoped it was Eric telling me he wasoff shiftfrom the fire department. A girl could dream. Instead, it was a new number.
We should talk. Your dad doesn’t like being embarrassed. —Nico.
I archived it without replying. I had nothing to say to Nico.
Another text moments later lit my screen.
Blocked number:Ten. Old Mill Road.
I exhaled.
Nico and Olivier sure knew how to sync their messages. I forwarded both to Becket. He should know what those two were up to.
Becket:Got it. Call if anything feels off.
I finished my tea by the balcony door. The bakery’s front lights dimmed in sequence. Eric crossed the window carrying a tray; for a second, he looked toward the street. We didn’t wave. But I saw him. And I think he saw me.
I began my nighttime routine: dishes, brushing teeth, bathroom light left on. Small rituals that made sleep show up. I checked the balcony latch, the front lock, not because locks fix the world but because choosing what I could control was a way to breathe. In bed, I stared at the ceiling until I stopped counting the ceiling tiles. Tomorrow would be stems and ribbon and quiet decisions and minding our own business. Eric could keep watch from his side of the street; I didn’t need saving. I needed space to be the right kind of stubborn.
Outside, Main settled. The alley light held. Somewhere far off, a siren faded. I turned on my side, let the day unhook, and chose morning.
CHAPTER 5
Eric
The first tray hit the counter at 5:58 a.m. a mix of steam, butter, and the usual rush. My head should go quiet. It didn’t because I was waiting on 9:00 a.m., when I’d see Harmony’s reflection move in the florist’s glass across the street. Auburn hair pulled back. Green eyes steady. She unlocked, flipped her sign, and vanished into the cooler. It had been years, and my chest still acted like senior year was yesterday. Maya pushed through the back door with her backpack and a smile. “I’ll take the front,” she announced. “You’ve got three sheet pans at two minutes.”
“On it,” I replied. “Thanks.”
My phone buzzed.
