It was unsettling how quickly awareness shifted from memory to something far more physical.
“I saw something online,” I said casually, trying to redirect my brain. “There’s a Texas Night at a country line dancing place in North Charleston tonight.”
Beth’s head snapped up. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Mechanical bull. Two-step. Line dancing.”
Natasha grinned slowly. “We would absolutely dominate.”
“I thought maybe we could go,” I said. “Show South Carolina how Texas actually moves.”
Beth was already reaching for her phone. “We’re going. I need boots. Or at least boot-adjacent heels.”
Natasha nodded. “We’ll need a car.”
“That part made me pause,” I admitted. “North Charleston. Is that … safe?”
Natasha considered. “Like anywhere else. Certain areas, certain times. We’ll be fine.”
Beth shrugged. “We’ve survived Austin parking garages. We can survive North Charleston.”
“Okay,” I said, smiling. “Then we regroup later. Get glammed up. Dinner before dancing?”
Beth clapped once. “Yes! Plans. Dancing. Potential chaos.”
“Your favorite combination,” Natasha added.
I grabbed my purse, heart thudding with something dangerously close to anticipation. “Wish me luck.”
Beth smirked. “We’ll be here dissecting everything when you get back.”
Juneberry was already buzzing when I arrived. Sunlight streamed through the big windows, soft green walls glowing, the smell of roasted tomatoes and fresh bread wrapping around me.
Wyatt was sitting at a small table near the window, coffee in hand, long legs stretched out casually. He looked impossibly out of place and perfectly at home all at once—like he didn’t belong to any one setting so much as he simply occupied space and the world adjusted around him. Broad shoulders under a fitted shirt, sun-kissed skin, that quiet confidence that didn’t need attention to command it.
My pulse stuttered.
He stood when he saw me, tall and unhurried, that same easy, devastating smile spreading across his face. The kind that suggested he knew exactly what it did to people and chose not to apologize for it.
“Soph.”
The way he said it still did something dangerous to me.
“Hi,” I said, suddenly aware of my dress, my hair, my pulse.
“You look …” He paused, searching. “Happy.”
I smiled. “You look like you belong in Texas, not a café that serves herb salads.”
He laughed. “Fair.”
We ordered coffee and pastries. The conversation started easy—Charleston, travel, the weirdness of fate. But beneath it all, something pulsed. Unsaid. Felt.
“Isn’t it strange,” I said, stirring my drink even though there was nothing left to mix, “how we’re calling ourselves old friends?”
The phrase felt safe. Contained. Like it had edges I could grip if I needed to pull back.
Wyatt didn’t answer right away. He watched me instead, head tilted slightly, that thoughtful stillness settling over him—the one he used to get when he was deciding whether to say something honest or something easy.
