I need coffee.
The main breakfast pavilion is already busy—resort guests claiming prime tables, wedding party members scattered throughout, staff gliding between tables with silver coffee pots and fresh pastries.
I scan the space automatically, the way I read the ice—tracking position, finding the play.
And there she is.
Jane's at a table with Natalie and the bridesmaids—Barbie, Sloane, Merritt, Katelyn. She's wearing a sundress I haven't seen before, yellow with tiny white flowers, her hair pulled back in a messy knot. She's laughing at something Natalie just said, her whole face lighting up.
She looks fine. Happy, even. Like last night didn't rattle her at all. It shouldn't bother me this much, but it grates.
I grab a plate and head for the buffet, trying to look casual. Trying not to watch her. Failing spectacularly.
She glances up as I pass, and our eyes meet.
For a second, everything else disappears.
I see it—the flush creeping up her neck, the slight tightening of her grip on her coffee mug, the widening of her eyes.
She's not unaffected. She's just better at hiding it in public than I gave her credit for.
The relief that floods through me is disproportionate and dangerous.
I nod once. Professional. Distant.
She nods back, then immediately drops her gaze to her plate.
Right. So we're doing the "pretend nothing happened" routine.
I can work with that.
I load my plate with food I don't want and claim a table with clear sightlines to hers. Not close enough to join. Close enough to watch.
The bridesmaids are talking wedding logistics—something about a sunset photo shoot and whether the lighting will work. Natalie's making notes on her phone. Jane's nodding along, contributing the occasional comment, but her attention keeps drifting.
To me.
Every time I move—reaching for coffee, cutting into an omelet I'm not tasting—her gaze flicks over. Brief. Furtive. Like she's checking to make sure I'm still there.
It's the least subtle surveillance I've ever witnessed.
I time my next trip to the buffet for exactly when she stands to refill her coffee.
We arrive at the station simultaneously.
"Morning," I say, voice carefully neutral.
"Morning." She doesn't look at me. Just focuses very intently on the coffee urn like it's a complex piece of machinery.
A tell. Yes! First one confirmed.
But she's still not looking at me.
I reach for the cream—closer than necessary, my arm brushing hers. Her hand tightens on the mug. The slightest tremor in her fingers.
Second one confirmed.
"How's the coffee?" I ask.
