Jace
The drive feels like it should be routine. Same roads. Same turns. The same early traffic that acts like nothing in the world is changing.
But it isn’t. Not when I’m on my way to a law office to sign the last piece of paper that officially ends my marriage.
And maybe that’s why my mind won’t stay where it should.
I should be thinking about that. About her.
Instead, my head’s still at The Brew House.
I keep seeing it in pieces, like my brain saved the worst parts on purpose.
Sarah at a two-top by the window.
That guy Brian across from her, leaning in like he belonged there. Easy smile. Calm hands. Like he didn’t have to fight for a second of her attention.
And Sarah. Trying to do the right thing. I could tell. She had that careful look in her eyes like she’d promised herself she’d show up, even if it cost her.
Then I walked in.
I went in for coffee, and the second I saw her, my body reacted like it forgot how to be normal.
Ethan muttered‘don’t’under his breath, like I was a dog he’d seen snap before.
He wasn’t wrong, especially after last night.
I saw Brian’s hand near hers and something hot and stupid hit the back of my throat. Not anger, exactly. More like the kind of possessive jealousy I have no right to.
Not while I’m still married.
Not while she’s trying to move forward.
I keep replaying the moment our fingers brushed when we both reached for her keys.
It was a simple touch.
And my whole body locked up like it was a memory instead of a moment.
Like I was back in that hallway again, standing outside a door I didn’t want to open, knowing if I moved the wrong way I’d ruin everything.
I grip the steering wheel harder at a red light and force air into my lungs.
‘Get through today.’
Because I’m not allowed to want her while my life is still tied to someone else.
And that’s about to change.
The pen feels heavier than it should, like my hand knows what this signature means even if my brain keeps trying to treat it like paperwork. It’s nothing special. Cheap plastic. Black ink. The kind you forget about the second you put it down. But when I wrap my fingers around it, there’s a weight to the moment that sinks into my wrist, my forearm, then my chest. Spreading slow and deliberate like my body is bracing for impact.
This is it.
The room is quiet in a way that feels intentional. Not sterile or cold. Just neutral. Beige walls. A narrow window letting in midmorning light. A desk that’s seen a thousand endings like this one and doesn’t care about any of them. The woman sitting across from me looks calm, professional, polite. She slides the papers closer, taps the signature line once with her finger, then folds her hands like she knows better than to rush this.
There’s an empty chair across the desk, angled slightly wrong, and my eyes keep drifting to it like muscle memory. I can almost see her there, arms crossed, mouth set in that tight line she gets when she’s holding something back, eyes tired in the way that became familiar long before either of us admitted we were done.
I glance at the chair again. It’s stupid. Looking for her is habit, maybe. Or guilt refusing to let me pretend this is anything but easy.
