The longer I watch them, the louder the thoughts get. Proximity. Timing. How easily routines form and how easily they break. How much space he’s allowed to occupy so close to her like it’s a fucking right instead of a privilege I have no claim to and never will.
I hate her for it.
I hate myself more.
I shift my weight beneath the heat lamp, the ribbon warm and damp in my pocket now. Across the glass, she lifts her cup andblows gently across the surface before sipping, lashes lowering. The sight of it hits me harder than it should. The illusion that she’s safe here. That nothing is watching. That the world is still simple enough to offer her apple cinnamon mornings and expect nothing in return.
That’s not how the world works.
I’ve seen what it takes from people who believe in mornings like this. How comfort becomes leverage. How routine turns into the soft spot someone else will press until it bruises.
And her? She knows exactly what the world is yet chooses to stay soft anyway. That’s the most dangerous thing about her.
When they stand to leave, Dean reaches for her coat, helps her into it with the practiced familiarity of a man who thinks he’s earning something. She thanks him, and he goes in for a hug, hands low on her waist, then a peck on the cheek, and I’m calculating how deep I have to bury him so he never fucking touches her again.
As they make their way to the door, I notice her purse still sitting on the table. A smile ghosts at the edge of my mouth. Of course it is. She leaves pieces of herself behind wherever she goes—keys, scarves, ribbons—always moving a half step ahead of what she’s carrying.
They’re about to step out the door when she finally realizes, then laughs at herself. Dean’s in a rush and doesn’t wait for her as she goes back for her bag. I take it as the universe’s way of stopping me from going after Dean because it knows my need to keep watching her is stronger than my instinct to slit his throat.
But fate grants me one, an opening which I take without hesitating.
I push off the brick wall and move, the timing precise, just as Dean steps through the door, and for a single, suspended beat, we occupy the same threshold.
Warmth spills out behind him. Cold presses in at my back. The bell overhead hasn’t decided whether to ring yet.
Our eyes meet. Up close, he’s exactly what I expected, neat, open-faced, comfortable in his place in the world. But he reeks of secrets, and I’m already mapping the places I’ll start carving to get them out.
He hesitates, uncertain whether to apologize or step aside. I do neither. He has nothing else to look at besides my eyes. It’s thirty-eight degrees out, so wearing a buff to conceal the lower part of my face is not unusual.
I hold his gaze just long enough for something to pass between us, sharp and wordless. Nothing more. It’s a quiet understanding that this moment matters, even if he doesn’t know why.
“Excuse me,” he says in a voice that’s meant to be dismissive, like this is a minor inconvenience.
I give it one more beat, imagining the exact sound bone makes when it gives, then step aside and let him pass while my eyes stay locked on his. He walks away, and I can almost feel it—the snap of cartilage, the sharp release of breath—how easy it would be to end the noise he leaves behind.
While I’m focused on Dean, on the space he’s occupying, a sound pulls me back. A soft gasp and the unmistakable hitch of a misstep.
I turn as she stumbles. Those fucking heels betray her the way they always do, balance tipping forward too fast for recovery.
I’m already moving before the thought even registers, closing the gap in two strides and catching her before the pavement can split her face open.
She slams into me instead, and the impact doesn’t knock the wind out of me from force. It knocks it out from the sheer fucking proximity. Her body against mine—warm, real, soft in places I’ve never been allowed to know. The unthinking trust in the way she falls forward, like the world has never once failed to catch her.
My hands clamp around her waist on instinct—hard enough to steady her, not hard enough to bruise, though the urge to dig in and leave marks flares hot and ugly in my palms. Her scent hits me, coffee, sugar, cold air, and that faint vanilla-orange shampoo that’s been living rent-free in my skull for too fucking long.
Her breath catches, short, startled…against my neck. One hand grips my sleeve like she’s afraid the ground might still claim her. The other flattens against my chest, fingers splayed, and for one stupid second, I think she’s pushing me away.
She isn’t.
She’s just holding on.
Fuck.
The contact burns through layers of cotton and leather like they’re nothing. Heat pools low in my gut, sharp and possessive, and my grip tightens without permission—one hand sliding halfan inch higher on her back, thumb brushing the edge of her spine. My jaw locks so hard my teeth ache.
She looks up, and her green eyes catch mine—no, not green. It’s deep, rich, and endlessly more complex than just green. And for the briefest moment, she doesn’t pull away. She just looks at me. Really looks. Like she can see past the buff, past the shadows I strategically place to remain invisible.
I should let go. I should step back. I should disappear into the crowd and pretend this never happened.
