I checked the time on my phone again.
Twenty-three minutes now.
Not that I was counting.
I paced the living room, anyway, nerves humming under my skin. The apartment felt different tonight—less like a museum of my sister’s life and more like a place suspended in expectation.
He was coming.
The thought sent an entirely inappropriate flutter through my stomach.
God. Get a grip.
I stopped in front of the hallway mirror, taking stock. Jeans, sweater, hair loose from running my hands through it too many times. Light makeup from earlier, smudged now at the edges.
Not trying.
Which somehow felt worse.
I darted into the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face, dabbed concealer under my eyes, brushed my hair quickly. Not a full redo. Just … less like a woman unraveling alone in her dead sister’s apartment.
By the time I stepped back into the living room, fifteen minutes remained.
And suddenly?—
What if he didn’t come?
The thought landed out of nowhere, sharp and unwelcome.
Men say things all the time. Promise help. Promise to show up.
Then life intervenes. Work calls. Better options appear. Interest fades.
Hadn’t I just told myself men like Kane didn’t linger?
I sank onto the sofa, phone in hand, trying not to stare at the dark screen like I could will it to light up.
You were way too forward.
The memory replayed instantly.
You.
God.
Heat crawled up my neck even now. Who says that? Who looks at a stranger and admits desire like that?
Grief does strange things, a voice whispered.Makes you reckless.
Maybe Kane realized that, too.
Maybe he’d stepped back into his own life and decided not to get tangled up in mine.
A small, humiliating ache settled in my chest.
Don’t be stupid. You just met him.
Still …
