1
GABE
Pathetic.
A voice repeats in my mind as I stand by the window of my store, clammy palms pressed to the glass, eyes fixed on the corner of Main and Alder.
The coffee kiosk is parked where it always is on Tuesdays, bright lettering scrawled across the chalkboard menu, steam curling into the cool morning air. Micah doesn’t just do coffee; his specialty teas are my favorite—spiced vanilla, bergamot blends, and what I want most: lavender honey.
I haven’t made it over there in nearly two months now. But every Tuesday, I stand here. I watch with my heart in my throat. Most days, I push through the dead weight of exhaustion and anxiety weighing me down. I act normal, pretend everything is fine. But lately, it’s been getting harder.
My hand drifts, fingertips grazing the scar etched across my right cheekbone. My skin tingles under the touch, raw even a year later. I press the tips of my fingernails in, the pain grounding, making me feelsomethingother than the hollowache in my core. I force myself to tear my hand away. I need to stop doing that.
The scar isn’t dramatic in its appearance. It’s a thin, pale crescent, slightly raised at the center where the cut was deepest, smoother at the ends where it fades into my face. Some days it looks almost silver. Other days—cold weather, touching it too much—it goes pink and tender.
I know what it looks like to others. A faint mark. A flaw you might not notice until you’re close. But sometimes someone’s gaze snags on it for too long, brows furrowing, head tilting. The joy and curse of small-town life, everyone knows your face, so when it changes…
The scar isn’t even the worst part. The worst part is what lives under it.
I watch as people move around the street, laughing and talking. Willowrun looks like something out of a postcard—old brick storefronts, painted in soft, weather-faded colors, lining a narrow main street.
It’s strange how the world outside can look so cheerful while something in me feels splintered. I curl my hands into fists, nails biting into my palms. I’m getting annoyed with myself now. I could just go over and grab a tea. It’s such a normal, everyday thing.
But… What if someone wanted to talk? What if they ask about the scar?
Worse… What if someone touched me?
My heart starts to thunder, anxiety flaring at the thought. Even a simple accidental bump, and there’s a high possibility I’d panic, I’d embarrass myself on the street in front of everyone.
Everyone would see. Everyone would talk. Everyone would realize how much of a mess I am.
My stomach flips. Heat prickles under my skin. I breathe through it, hoping this feeling of helplessness fades.
Avoidance is the safest option.
The smell of espresso drifts in when someone opens the door to my bookstore. My body leans toward the light, toward the chatter and warmth.
A soft brush of fingertips at my wrist jolts me. I turn to find Ciarán standing there, his expression caught between apology and concern, cerulean eyes searching mine.
“Sorry,” he says quietly, smiling sheepishly. “I called your name.”
I blink, I didn’t even notice him come in when the door opened, didn’t hear his voice, nothing but the roar of my own thoughts. My shoulders relax at the sight of him, though.
His hand drops, pastel pink nails catching the light. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t,” I murmur automatically, even though we both know he did.
Ciarán follows my gaze to the window. He doesn’t comment, doesn’t tease like he might about any other topic. Instead, he tilts his head toward the shop counter. “Come on. Grabbed pastries on the way. I can’t stick around long, I’m swamped working on this current project.” I hear the excitement in his voice. He works as a literary editor and part-time event planner; he’s the go-to person in Willowrun when it comes to planning anything.
We move to the other side of the shop. Ciarán drops a paper bag onto the counter, pulling out two pastries, one already half gone.
“I was going to wait until I got here,” he says around a bite, “but patience isn’t one of my virtues.”
I arch an eyebrow as I lower myself onto the stool beside him. “You don’t have any virtues,” I tease. “What’s the book about?”
He grins, dark waves falling across his forehead, highlighting his olive-toned skin and shimmering cheekbones. He’s muchsmaller than me, about a foot, but he’s all energy and restless movement. He fills every space like he owns it—legs stretched out, rings glinting as he takes another bite. He’s wearing a tight white cropped shirt, black tailored wide-leg pants, and a silver blazer. I look down at my own outfit: Converse, faded jeans, a plain T-shirt, and one of my many cardigans that have seen better days, boring compared to him. He has a confidence I could never achieve.
“I have virtues.” He pauses. “Can’t think of a single one right now, though,” he laughs, sliding the pastry across to me. “Queer romance. A lace-wearing villain who falls for the hero, it’s hilarious. Editing is nearly done.”
