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Then the realization knocked all the wind out of me; this was the first time I’d heard anyone else say his name since I’d woken up in the hospital and found out he died.

My parents had all but erased him. In the time I’d been gone, they’d taken down his photos from the walls, scrubbed his existence from their home like acknowledging he’d ever lived was too painful to bear. I hadn’t had the courage to look to see if his room was the same. Everything had been when I left five years ago to finish my recovery with Aunt Lauren. I couldn’t believe they would remove him like he’d never existed at all.

Even with all the guilt I carried, I still kept photos of him on my phone that I’d looked at when I felt brave enough.

I think I was angrier that my parents had removed any trace of him than the fact that they could barely look at me. I understood their reaction to me, but I couldn’t fathom their actions when it came to Bryce’s memory.

But Mira said his name like remembering him was an honor, not a burden. Like he’d just stepped away for a minute and would be right back.

I wondered if my parents even talked to her anymore. Somehow, I doubted it.

“Come on.” Mira tugged gently at my arm, already steering me toward the mouth of the alley. “You’re coming inside and having a cup of coffee and telling me about this Montana life of yours. I want to know everything.”

“Mira, you don’t have to⁠—”

“I’m not asking.” She had that familiar stubborn set to her jaw that I remembered from a hundred different arguments with Bryce. He never could win against her when she got that look. “I’ve got another barista coming to cover in twenty minutes anyway. You can wait, and then we’re going to sit down and catch up properly.”

I glanced back at Harry, who was watching the exchange carefully. He gave me the smallest nod, letting me know if I wanted an out, he’d give me one. And if I wanted to stay, he’d be there too.

God, I was doomed when it came to him, wasn’t I?

There was no way I’d survive this trip without falling for him, whether I deserved him or not.

Honestly, I didn’t deserve any of this—not Mira’s kindness or Harry’s steadiness or the way neither of them seemed to blame me for any of it. But maybe, just this once, I could pretend I did.

“Okay,” I said quietly. “We’ll stay and catch up.”

Mira’s smile widened, and she looped her arm through mine like no time had passed at all.

“Good.” She patted my hand. “Now introduce me to your man properly. He looks like he could bench press a car, which I approve of, but I need to know if he treats you right.”

Despite the tears still drying on my cheeks and the ache in my chest, the corner of my mouth twitched as a smile threatened to escape.

“Harry,” I said, reaching back to grab his hand and pull him forward, “this is Mira. Mira, this is Harry.”

“Harrison Gordon,” he said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Mira studied his face with an intensity that would have made a lesser man squirm. But Harry just met her gaze as his quiet calm radiated off him like warmth from a fire.

“Harrison,” she repeated thoughtfully. “But she calls you Harry?”

“She’s the only one who does. Everyone else calls me Gordy.”

She hummed and gave me a knowing smile. She didn’t seem upset at the idea of me being in a relationship even though it was my fault she’d lost the love of her life.

She opened the door to the coffee shop and gestured for us to go ahead of her. Harry’s hand found the small of my back in a gesture that I was coming to rely on far too much for strength.

I took a deep breath and walked through the door of The Daily Grind.

TWELVE

Growing up a Gordon meant mastering the art of controlled expression before you could ride a bike. It meant a father who considered visible emotion a liability, dinner tables where children were seen and not heard, and the unspoken rule that Gordons didn’t crack—not in public, not in private, not ever.

By the time I got to CFU, my poker face wasn’t just a skill—it was armor. Teammates joked that I had the emotional range of a brick wall, and I let them, because the alternative was letting people see what was underneath.

Right now, that armor was the only thing keeping me upright from the truth that had been slapping me in the face since we landed in Seattle. It turned out I wasn’t the only one who’d mastered the art of masking your true feelings. The bright light that Sam exuded in Montana was a mask for the pain and grief she’d been hiding underneath, and I was ashamed that I hadn’t seen it sooner—that she’d had to suffer quietly for so long without support.

The Daily Grind was warm and smelled like roasted coffee beans. It was a small space with maybe a dozen tables and a few cushioned chairs in the corner. The white walls were covered in local art and light wooden accents. It felt cozy and welcoming. There were a few customers scattered around with laptops and mugs, but none of them were paying attention to us.