Zayn is back.
The thought hits me again, just as brutal as when Harper dropped the bomb last night. Everything inside me clenches, that awful pressure building behind my ribs. I stare blankly at the menu board without actually reading it, my mind spiraling through questions I have no business asking myself.
Why did he come back? What if I run into him? What would I even say? Would he try to talk to me? Does he still look the same, or has five years changed him completely? Did he come back for me?
No. Stop. This isn’t some romance novel where the hero returns to his small hometown to win back his lost love. That’sfiction. In real life, men who walk away don’t suddenly reappear with grand gestures and second-chance declarations.
The line shuffles forward. I catch my reflection in the mirror behind the counter and immediately wish I hadn’t. My dark hair is yanked back in a messy ponytail, wisps escaping to frame my face. Dark circles shadow my eyes like bruises. I should’ve at least concealed them with makeup. But what’s the point? It’s not like Zayn would even recognize me if he saw me now.
You’re lying to yourself, the honest part of my brain whispers.You chose this coffee shop specifically hoping you might run into him.
“No, I didn’t,” I mutter under my breath.
The woman in front of me glances back, eyebrows raised.
I pretend to cough.
Another customer collects their order and leaves. Four people remaining. I let my eyes wander around the familiar space—mismatched vintage couches, reclaimed wood tables, overstuffed armchairs clustered by the windows where students hunch over laptops. The exposed brick walls display local art in bright, chaotic colors that Harper absolutely love.
The bell above the door chimes again.
The energy in the room shifts.
Not obviously—the espresso machine still hisses, the music still plays, conversations continue—but something subtle changes in the atmosphere, like everyone collectively drew a small breath at the exact same moment.
I turn toward the door on instinct.
And freeze completely.
Zayn Blackwell stands in the doorway.
My heart slams against my ribs once, twice, then plummets straight into my stomach. My fingers go numb and tingly, pins and needles spreading up my arms.
He’s taller than I remember. Or maybe just broader through the shoulders. The lanky twenty-one-year-old has filled out into a man whose frame threatens to split the seams of his charcoal suit. His dark hair is styled differently now—close-cropped on the sides, longer on top, looking expensive.
But it’s the tattoos that steal my breath completely. The ink I remember stopping at his forearms now extends past his wrists, covering his hands in designs—vines wrapping around his fingers like rings. New additions. And there’s something on his neck now too—a wreath tattoo that peeks above his crisp white collar, dark lines climbing toward his jaw.
He looks the same but entirely different. Older. More serios. More… everything.
His eyes—those impossible blue-gray eyes I used to get lost in for hours—sweep across the coffee shop. And then they land on me.
Our gazes collide across the crowded room and suddenly I can’t hear anything. It’s exactly like those ridiculous movie moments where everything goes silent and fuzzy except for the two people staring at each other.
Five years evaporate like they never existed. I’m eighteen again, standing on the cliff path with his arms wrapped around me, his voice rough in my ear as he whispers “always” into my hair. Then I’m reading that text about the Seattle job offer, my hands shaking so badly I can barely hold my phone. Then I’m curled on the bathroom floor sobbing until I throw up, wondering why I wasn’t enough reason for him to stay.
He takes a step toward me. Every muscle in my body coils tight, preparing to bolt.
He doesn’t look away. Not even for a second. His eyes stay locked on mine like I’m the only person in this entire crowded coffee shop. Like he’s been searching for me. Like he’s beenwandering through a desert and I’m the first water he’s seen in miles.
I’ve read this exact scene in dozens of romance novels. The moment when the separated lovers see each other again after years apart. It’s supposed to feel electric and magical and heart-stopping in the best possible way.
I feel like I’m going to throw up all over my shoes.
My hands tremble. My mouth has gone completely dry. I can’t move, can’t look away, can’t do anything except stand here frozen while Zayn Blackwell stares at me from across The Daily Grind like the past five years didn’t happen.
“Vanilla latte with almond milk, extra shot, for Sophie!”
The barista’s voice cuts through the spell like scissors through silk. I blink hard, tearing my gaze away from Zayn. Sound rushes back in—conversations overlapping, cups clattering, the hiss of the espresso machine. I’m a woman standing in a coffee shop having a panic attack while her ex-boyfriend watches.
