Marcus is easy to spot.
He always is.
He stands near the crosswalk, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed. He looks around as if taking in the town with mild amusement, like it’s a novelty rather than a place people live.
When he sees me, his face lights up.
Not the sharp smile from the café. Not the brittle, defensive version from the office. This smile is softer. Familiar. The one that used to make my shoulders relax before I even realized I’d been tense.
“There you are,” he says warmly, like we’re late for dinner and not standing in the middle of Main Street with my heart trying to escape my ribcage. “I was starting to think you’d changed your mind.”
“I almost did,” I say.
His smile flickers then settles back into place. “You always were dramatic when you were nervous.”
There it is.
The old rhythm. The gentle tease that makes it feel like we’re already on the same side.
“I’m not here to fight,” he continues, holding up his hands as a peace offering. “I just want to talk. Five minutes. That’s all.”
I don’t respond.
He takes that as permission.
“I meant what I said yesterday,” he goes on, voice dropping into that intimate register he always used when he wanted me to lean in. “I was worried about you. When you disappeared… it wasn’t like you to just vanish.”
I let out a breath that’s half laugh, half disbelief. “You fired me.”
His brow furrows, perfectly calibrated concern sliding into place. “I know how it felt. I do. But you have to understand the position I was in.”
I stiffen. “I understand it just fine.”
“Delaney,” he says gently, like he’s calming a skittish animal. “You were under an unbelievable amount of pressure. The hours, the scrutiny, the expectations you put on yourself. Anyone would’ve cracked.”
“I didn’t crack.”
“You don’t have to defend yourself,” he replies smoothly. “I saw how hard you were pushing. How much of yourself you were pouring into that kitchen. I admired that about you.”
My chest tightens traitorously.
He was always good at this, taking the sharp edges of what he did and sanding them down with praise.
“You were the best sous I ever had,” he continues, earnest now. “No one read my mind like you did. No one anticipated dishes the way you did. We were… in sync.”
A memory flashes uninvited: him handing me a glass of wine like a secret.You get me,he’d said once.That’s rare.
“I don’t miss the noise,” he says quietly. “But I miss you.”
My throat burns.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“I know I hurt you,” he presses. “And I hate that. But you can’t tell me you don’t miss it too. The rush. The focus. The way it felt when a service went perfectly, and the whole room was buzzing because of something you helped create.”
I don’t answer.
Because that part of me does stir. The one that loved the hum of a kitchen, the sharp clarity of purpose, the high of being excellent at something that mattered.
