Frustration coils tight in my chest.
I shift the truck into drive and roll forward, repositioning until I find a spot that gives me a clear view through the café window. I cut the engine and wait, eyes locked on the glass.
I don’t miss a thing. And I won’t miss him either.
They stand at the counter, waiting for their coffees. Talking. Smiling. The casual intimacy of it twists something vicious in my chest. I would give anything,anything, to have microphones planted inside that café, to hear every word he feeds her and every laugh she gives in return.
My fingers rub the worn leather of the steering wheel, thumb scraping against my index finger until the friction burns. It’s the only thing keeping my hands occupied, the only thing stopping me from punching glass or bone.
They move to a table by the window. Too close to me. Too visible. He pulls out a chair and sits nearer than necessary, invading her space like he has a right to it. Their knees brush beneath the table. Touching.
Red floods my vision.
My phone vibrates in my hand, the sudden buzz grounding and damning all at once.
Jaxon:
Name’s Ryan Steele. Thirty-one. Parents: Gwen and Harry Steele.
Hospital security, six years. Recently assigned to St John’s ICU.
Single. Clean record. No priors. Still digging.
I scan the message, but none of it does a damn thing to calm the storm inside me. It doesn’t ease the anger. It doesn’t smother the jealousy I don’t want to name but feel anyway, hot, corrosive, unforgiving.
I keep watching them, ignoring my phone as it buzzes again and again in my hand. I can’t look away from her. Won’t. As if the second I do, something irreversible will happen. As if she might slip through my fingers for good.
She’s listening to him. Engaged. Smiling. Laughing.
He says something, nothing worthy of that sound, and she laughs again, soft and unguarded. Her hand drifts across the table and comes to rest over his. Gentle. Familiar. His gaze drops instantly, hungry and unmistakable. He wets his lips, eyes lifting to hers, lingering where they don’t belong.
Something inside me fractures.
I snap.
The door of my truck slams harder than intended as I get out, moving on pure instinct, no plan formed, just heat and impulse and possession clawing its way to the surface. Cold air bites into my skin, sharp enough to clear my head for half a second.
An idea forms.
I don’t head for the café entrance. Instead, I circle around the back. The service door to the kitchen is ajar, held open by stacked milk crates filled with empty bottles, clinking softly in the breeze. An open invitation.
And I’ve never been good at ignoring those.
A young guy, barely more than a kid, probably a dish hand or some wide-eyed apprentice, freezes the moment he sees me. He’s clutching black bin bags like a shield, breath catching in his throat.
I draw my gun just enough for him to understand. I don’t aim it. I don’t have to. I press my finger to my lips in a silent warning.
Be quiet. Or else.
His eyes blow wide, fear stripping him bare. The bin bags tremble in his grip as he nods frantically, backing away from me, slipping past toward the service exit like prey that knows better than to run.
I turn my attention to the stacks of produce boxes lining the wall. This won’t be my finest moment, but I don’t care. I need her out of here. Away from him.
I tuck the gun away and move closer. I grab my lighter. Flick it on. Let the flame kiss the boxes. I turn to leave. Chaos sparks to life behind me, slow and deliberate, curling into something uncontrollable. I stand there for a moment, watching it grow, watching my restraint burn away with it. I light a cigarette, inhale deep, exhale calm.
That should do it.
As I move to leave, the kid is there again, blocking the doorway. Shocked. Shaking. Still breathing, lucky him.
