Because there he is.
Sitting at a corner table, a laptop open in front of him, film notes spread out across the surface like he owns the place. The table itself is classic Jace territory, half-claimed like it’s his by right. His jacket is draped over the back of the chair, a spiral notebook flipped open with margins full of cramped handwriting I’d recognize anywhere. He taps a pen against the edge of the page, restless even while sitting still. That little habit hasn’t changed.
His head is bent, brows drawn in concentration, but I’d know that profile anywhere. Strong jaw, hair a little too long at the back, shoulders filling out the plain gray quarter-zip he’s wearing.
For one stupid second, my breath catches. My first instinct is to pivot, to grab my drink and bolt before he looks up. But the barista calls a name that isn’t mine, and my feet stay planted like they’ve forgotten how to move.
And then he glances up.
Our eyes lock, and the rest of the noise fades out. Just like that, the hum of conversation, the hiss of steam, the shuffle of feet… gone. It’s just him, staring at me like I’ve walked straight out of a memory he shouldn’t have kept.
I should look away but I don’t.
“Sarah.” His voice cuts through the space between us, low but steady.
I swallow hard, forcing a smile that feels too thin. “Coach Prescott.”
His mouth twitches like he hears the edge in my voice. “Really? We’re still doing this?”
I shrug, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder. “Seems safer than… other options.”
A flicker of something, amusement? Hurt maybe, passes through his eyes before he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms like he’s settling in. “Still ordering the caramel latte?”
I hate how my stomach flips at the question. He makes it sound easy, like remembering something small about me is no big deal. Like he doesn’t realize it’s been years since I lived here and moved back for work. That one detail lands sharper than anything else he could’ve said.
The question punches harder than it should. “You remember that?”
“Some things stick,” he says simply.
My name gets called from the counter, and I should take the out. Grab the cup, keep walking, pretend this never happened. Instead, I snag the caramel latte, the heat seeping through the cardboard sleeve, and my feet betray me again, carrying me closer to his table instead of the door.
“You always did hog the quiet corners,” I say, nodding toward his spread of film notes. “Don’t tell me you kicked some freshman out of here so you could watch tape.”
He smirks, and it’s unfair how familiar it feels. “Didn’t have to. They saw me coming and scattered.”
“Intimidation. Classic.” I wrap my fingers around my cup, the heat searing my palms. “Still works, I guess.”
His mouth curves, but the grin doesn’t stick. “Long week,” he mutters, then shakes his head like he didn’t mean to say it. After a beat, he adds, quieter, “Long year.”
The words scrape out of him like they weren’t meant for me at all, heavier than I expect. His shoulders sag, just for a second, and his gaze drops to the coffee in his hands, fingers tightening around the cup like it’s the only thing keeping him steady.
For a second, it feels almost normal, the banter, the push and pull we used to fall into so easily. But the crack in his voice lingers, tugging at something I don’t want to feel. I should let it go, pretend I didn’t notice. Instead, my chest tightens, andbefore I can stop myself, I almost whisper, “You don’t have to carry it alone.”
His head lifts, eyes narrowing, searching my face like he wants me to finish the thought. I bite the inside of my cheek and look down at my cup. “Forget it.” The words scrape out thin, because finishing the thought would mean admitting I still care.
My throat burns with everything unsaid. How I used to be the one who leaned against his shoulder, how I used to be the one who knew when he was tired without asking. Now I’m just another person across from him, pretending I don’t still see the cracks.
But then my eyes catch the glint of his wedding ring against the paper cup in front of him, and my stomach twists.
I take a step back, reminding myself where we are. Who we are. “Well. Good luck with your… film or whatever.”
“Sarah.” He says my name again, softer this time. I freeze, because damn it, he still knows how to make it sound like more than just two syllables. Like a tether I can’t cut.
I force myself to meet his eyes. “Don’t.”
Something flickers across his face, but he doesn’t push. Not at first. Then, almost too low to hear, he says, “Don’t look at me like that.”
My throat goes dry. “Like what?”
