I adjust my stance, the scuff of my boot on the floor louder than I’d prefer. It’s enough to make his head lift, eyes catching mine for one suspended second before I force myself to look away. Ineed to go. Out the door, into the cold, anywhere that isn’t here with him.
I should step back, put space between us, but my feet don’t move. I hover too close to the edge of the table, fingers tightening on my coffee like it’s the only anchor I’ve got. When he reaches for his cup, his sleeve grazes mine. Just the faintest contact, gone in a breath, but my pulse reacts like it’s a brand.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, like the word costs him.
I shake my head quickly, gripping my coffee tighter. “Don’t worry about it.” My voice comes out thinner than I want, but it’s all I can give without shattering.
But I don’t move either. My hand hovers at my side, inches from his. If I shifted even a little, our fingers would touch. That single thought coils tight in my stomach, a spark I shouldn’t want, shouldn’t need. His gaze flicks down like he’s thinking the same thing, like he remembers exactly how it felt the last time my hand fit into his.
For one suspended second, the world narrows. Just me and him, the smell of roasted beans and caramel sugar heavy between us, the hum of the coffee shop fading to a distant blur. His eyes catch mine, holding, searching, almost asking. My chest aches with the weight of everything unsaid, everything I’ve buried and pretended didn’t matter.
I inhale too sharply, the sound betraying me. His jaw flexes, like he heard it, like he knows.
And then I step back. Fast. Hard enough that my bag slips against my hip and the coffee nearly sloshes out of my cup. “I should go,” I say, forcing a laugh that doesn’t sound like me. “Places to be.”
The corner of his mouth tightens, not quite a frown, not quite anything at all. “Right.”
I push past him, ignoring the way my pulse races, ignoring the heat that lingers where our shoulders brushed. The door is only a few steps away, but each one feels heavier than the last. My body wants to look back, to catch one more glimpse, to prove he’s still watching me the way he always used to.
I don’t. I can’t.
The bell chimes again as I shove into the cold, air sharp against my cheeks. My legs move fast, faster than they need to, carrying me down the street like if I put enough distance between us, the ache in my chest will fade. It doesn’t.
By the time I reach my car, my coffee is lukewarm, and my hands are shaking. I set the cup on the roof just to fumble my keys into the lock, my breath fogging in uneven bursts.
I lean against the door for a second before sliding inside, closing my eyes like maybe darkness will quiet the storm in my head. It doesn’t. Because all I see is him—his shoulders bent under weight he wouldn’t name, the crack in his voice when he said “long year,” the way his gaze lingered like maybe I was still the thing he couldn’t shake either.
I press my forehead against the steering wheel, exhaling hard. I should be stronger than this. I should know better. He’s married. He made his choice. And I swore I wouldn’t let myself be dragged back into his orbit again.
But my heart doesn’t care about choices. It never has.
And the truth is brutal, undeniable, the thing I don’t want to say out loud but can’t escape:
I’m not over him.
Not when his voice still knows how to break me.
Not when every part of me still remembers what it felt like to be his.
I grip the wheel tighter, blinking against the sting in my eyes. No matter how much I want to be free of him, I’m not. Not even close.
Chapter Five
The Weight of Want
Jace
The locker room smells like sweat and disinfectant, same as it always does. Cleats clatter against tile, lockers slam shut, and the air hums with the kind of restless energy only a hundred or so college guys can generate before practice. Normally I’d thrive on it. Normally I’d be in the middle of it, reminding them to keep their heads down, telling them the little things matter more than they realize.
Today, my head’s not here.
I stand at the whiteboard, marker in hand, staring at a set of defensive schemes I’ve drawn a hundred times. The lines blur,the arrows loop back on themselves, and all I see is the cup of a caramel latte clutched in someone else’s hands.
Her hands.
“Coach?” one of the freshmen pipes up from the back row. “Uh…is this the part where we switch to zone?”
I blink, realizing I’ve been holding the marker in midair for way too long. My jaw tightens. “Yeah. Zone. Eyes up, Harris. Don’t guess, don’t gamble. You see your man, you stick with him. Simple.”
