A normal morning. A normal stop. A normal errand that doesn’t carry weight or consequence or history.
That lie lasts exactly ten seconds.
The bell over the door chimes as I step into The Brew House, and the smell hits me first. Coffee. Warm pastries. That familiar, clean wood-and-sugar comfort that makes the whole place feel like it’s holding its arms out.
It should calm me.
Instead, my stomach tightens like I’m walking into court.
I keep my head down, sunglasses still on even though it’s cloudy out. That alone should tell me how bad I’m doing. People don’t wear sunglasses indoors unless they’re hiding something.
I get in line, hands fidgeting with my sleeve, and stare at the chalkboard menu like I don’t already know what I’m ordering. My thoughts are scattered, sharp little pieces that keep cutting at me when I try to press them down.
Because I know how to disappear and convince myself it’s the same thing as surviving.
Now it feels like rot.
The line moves. The barista calls out a name. Someone laughs near the window. The world keeps spinning and I feel like I’m about to blow up my life.
Then I feel it. That shift.
That subtle pressure in the air like the room has decided something before my brain catches up.
I don’t even turn right away.
I don’t want to confirm it.
But I do anyway, because I’m not strong enough to pretend.
And there he is.
Knox.
He’s at a table near the windows, forearms braced on the wood, coffee in front of him like he belongs here. Like he belongs anywhere. He’s in a dark hoodie and jeans, baseball cap low, posture relaxed but not careless. The kind of relaxed that comes from being capable, not from being oblivious.
He looks up.
And even from across the room, his gaze lands on me like a hand at the small of my back.
Focused… steady.
My breath catches hard enough that it hurts.
Because I haven’t seen him since that day.
Since he stood in my doorway while my whole life cracked open, and somehow he was the only thing in the room that felt stable.
He doesn’t wave across the room or smile like this is casual. Instead, his gaze finds mine and holds, familiar in a way that makes my chest tighten. There’s recognition there, and something quieter beneath it, an awareness that feels older than this moment and heavier than coincidence.
He looks at me like someone who knows my face without needing an introduction, like someone who remembers me frombefore everything fractured. There’s heat in it too, subtle but unmistakable, not new or shocking, just unresolved in a way that makes my stomach dip.
He just watches, aware of the line between us and careful not to cross it without permission.
My guilt spikes so fast it’s almost dizzying. It starts under my ribs and climbs up my throat like bile. Because he’s not supposed to be here.
Not in my day. Not in my head. Not in the part of me that still feels too raw to touch.
And the worst part is… he makes me want to touch it anyway.
