He watches me. I think about how I used to think he was fast, savage, never-still. Now he’s slow, deliberate, heavy with things he won’t say.
I set the drink before him. “Here.”
He picks it up and inhales. “Smells like bad decisions and good memories.”
I can’t tell if that’s sweet or jaded.
He clears his throat. “Alaina, I?—”
I cut him. “Don’t. Just don’t.”
He bows his head. The bar lights cast angular shadows across his face. Broken lines. Hard edges.
I take a breath. Test the lie on my tongue. “Just so you know… the baby? It’s not yours.”
Silence lands like a slab of stone. The hum of neon, of the hum of the bar, dims. Staff freeze mid-motion. A barfly leans, curious.
Troka’s fingers tighten around the glass. He doesn’t blink. His lips press into a thin line.
“You think that makes it easier?” he finally whispers.
“No,” I say, voice small but jagged. “But I can’t let this be a trap, Troka. I can’t live in waiting.”
He swallows. “You think I’d make it a trap.” His voice cracks, like metal under pressure.
I turn away. I wipe the counter. Breeze from the vent brushes my neck. Itfeelslike his breath.
“Don’t expect me to welcome you back,” I say. “You missed everything.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens again.
“Why lie?”
Because anywhere beneath your gaze, the truth would drown me.
I lash back, “Because I’m scared, Troka. Scared of hoping too hard. Scared of getting broken again.”
We stare. The distance between us—bar length, years long—feels too small and too immense.
Then he does something I never saw coming: he smiles. Just a twitch. Hurt, bitter, soft.
“Still beautiful,” he mutters. Then turns, steps toward the exit.
I want to call him back. I want to scream at him. But my voice sticks behind my ribs.
He pauses at the door. Looks over his shoulder once. The golden gaze flickers.
Then he’s gone.
The door hisses closed. The neon buzz returns. Patrons shift. The bar life resumes—laughter, clinks, voices. But I’m still. Behind the bar, rag in hand, heart carved open like a wound, lying to protect a love that might be lost already.
CHAPTER 12
TROKA
Outside, the neon haze clouds my vision. The air tastes of exhaust, ozone, and possibility. My boots step hard on the concrete. Each click echoes in my head.
I pull pack tighter across my shoulder as if it could keep out pain.
