I climbed the stairs now, my body heavy with the exhaustion that came after a 24-hour shift.
Her door was closed. But I could see light through the crack at the bottom, pale yellow spilling into the dim hallway. She was awake. At 6 in the morning, she was awake.
I stopped outside my own door, keys in hand.
I should check on her. Just knock. Just ask if she's okay. That's what Mateo would have wanted. That's what the promise meant.
But what would I say?
I moved into this building because of you. Because Mateo asked me to watch over you with his dying breath. Because I couldn't save him, so saving you is all I have left.
Because when I close my eyes, I still see his face. And I don't know if looking at you makes it better or worse, but I can't seem to stay away.
My hand lifted toward her door.
And stopped.
I couldn't do it. Couldn't knock. Couldn't face her, with all of our history and grief and silence between us. I couldn't stand there and pretend I was just a neighbor checking in, when we both knew I was the man who'd let her fiancé die.
I unlocked my own door, stepped inside, and let the darkness swallow me.
Through the thin walls, I heard her crying. Soft, muffled, like she was trying to hide it from the world.
I stood in my kitchen and listened, but I didn't go to her.
Because I wasn't what she needed. I was just the man who'd failed to bring Mateo home.
CHAPTER 3
Lucy
The first textcame at 9:47 AM, right in the middle of the morning rush.
I was refilling Harold's coffee, listening to him tell me about Emma's latest soccer game, when my phone buzzed in my apron pocket. I ignored it. Probably just a notification, maybe Joanna texting from the back about a supply order. It could wait.
Then it buzzed again. And again.
"Everything okay, sweetheart?" Harold was watching me with concern, his coffee cup still extended.
"Fine." I smiled, poured, moved on to the next table. "Just fine."
But my hands weren't steady when I finally pulled out my phone during a lull, ducking behind the pastry case where no one could see my screen.
Unknown Number.
Saw you at the café today. You look good.
The words blurred in front of me. I blinked, read them again, felt something cold spread through my chest.
I knew it was him no matter how many times I'd tried to convince myself otherwise. Wrong numbers don't keep finding you. Strangers don't know exactly how to make your skin crawl.
I deleted the message. Blocked the number. Shoved my phone back in my pocket and picked up the coffee pot again.
Ten minutes later, another buzz. Different number.
Unknown Number.
I miss you.
