"Hey," she says, approaching the counter. "How are you holding up?"
"Fine," I say, not meeting her eyes as I wipe down the already-clean counter. "Busy."
"Sadie," she says, her voice dropping lower. "We need to talk about last night. About Elliot. About the photo."
"Not here." I glance pointedly at the customers nearby. "Not now."
"Then when? You're leaving for Oregon tomorrow."
"Later," I promise, though I have no intention of keeping it. "After closing."
She sighs, knowing she's being put off but unable to call me on it in public. "Fine. But I'm coming by your place tonight. No excuses."
I nod, already planning to be too busy packing to have any real conversation. She orders a latte, which I make with unnecessary focus, and leaves with one last worried look over her shoulder.
The hours drag by, each minute stretching like elastic ready to snap. By noon, I've checked my phone twenty times, no messages from Axel. Not that I want any. I don't. But the silence feels significant somehow, like confirmation that whatever was building between us is well and truly broken.
It's better this way. Cleaner. I have enough complications without adding a relationship to the mix. Especially with someone who thinks he knows better than me what I need, what I can handle.
But I miss him.
God, I hate myself for missing him. For wanting that rough palm at the back of my neck, that steady, unshakable stare that made me feel seen. I crave the shape of his hands around my hips, the safety in his arms, even as I curse him for making me feel anything at all. It’s a sickness, this need. I try to smother it, but it keeps burning through.
The bell chimes again, and Rowan returns, this time with a brown paper bag that I know contains lunch I won't eat.
"Don't start," I say as she approaches the counter.
"I didn't say anything," she protests, setting the bag down.
"You were thinking it loudly."
She sighs, leaning against the counter. "I'm worried about you, Sadie. You look like you haven't slept in days."
"I'm fine," I insist, the words so automatic I barely believe myself anymore.
Rowan crosses her arms. "You're not fine. Nobody would be fine after what happened. Elliot showing up, that photograph?—"
"I said not here," I hiss, glancing at the customers nearby. An older couple looks up from their crossword puzzle, curious at my tone.
Rowan lowers her voice. "Fine. But you can't just pretend this isn't happening."
"Watch me," I mutter, turning back to the espresso machine.
I clickeach lock into place, then tug on the door to make sure it's secure. It's not enough. It never feels like enough anymore. I grab the chair from my small dining table and wedge it under the doorknob, something I haven't done since those first terrified weeks after fleeing Oregon.
"It's okay," I whisper to myself, though it's anything but. "We're safe."
The apartment is too quiet, too still. I move to the windows, checking each lock, adjusting the blinds so no one can see in, but I can still peek out. The parking lot is mostly empty. No black sedan. No sign of Elliot. No sign of Axel either.
My chest tightens at the thought of him. I push it away, focusing on the task at hand. The things I can manage.
I check Poppy's room next, my heart melting as I watch her sleeping peacefully in her crib, completely unaware of the chaos swirling around her. Her little chest rises and falls, one arm flung above her head in that way she always sleeps. My beautiful girl. My reason for everything.
"I won't let him take you," I promise, my voice barely audible. "I'll die first."
The baby monitor is fully charged, volume turned up high. I place it on my nightstand where I can hear every sound, then move to my closet where my suitcase sits half-packed for tomorrow's flight.
My hands shake as I fold another shirt, adding it to the neat piles. Practical clothes for court. My lawyer's voice echoes in my head: "Conservative and respectable. Like you're going to church."
