Realized I looked like I was about to sell her a haunted house.
12:41 p.m.
Picked up coffee at a local spot. (If she hated it, I was prepared to spiral.)
Checked my reflection in the car window. Twice. Almost backed out.
Again.
1:09 p.m.
I can do this. I can do this.
Sat in the parking lot outside the café, heartbeat at a violent tempo. Rehearsed a line about ‘accidentally dropping by the bookstore.’
Rejected it.
Rehearsed it again.
1:24 p.m.
I was outside the café door, holding coffee and hope like they were enough to get me through the next hour.
I was about to see her again.
I wasn’t ready.
I also wanted never to do anything else.
The door opened behind me.
I didn’t turn around right away.
I don’t know why — maybe I thought if I didn’t look, I could stall the moment, hold on to the tension just a little longer. Or maybe I was trying to pretend I wasn’t waiting like a guy in a romantic comedy who definitely doesn’t survive the final cut.
But then I heard her voice — a soft, polite, “Hey,” to the hostess — and ithitme.
I turned.
And there she was.
Juniper.
Hair pulled half up, sunglasses on her head. A leather jacket and a dress that wasn’tloud, but sure as hell made the air shift around her. She looked like every version of her I’d remembered — and none of them at all. Worse, better.Real.
She spotted me and smiled — not the careful one from yesterday, not the practiced grin for strangers or fans — but something crooked. Crooked and warm and just a little wary, like she knew exactly how stupid I was about to be.
God help me, I smiled back.
I stood fast enough to knock the edge of the table with my knee.
Smooth.
“Hey,” I said, voice too low. Too casual. “You came.”
She arched an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m always surprised when people show up for me.” There was a pause. Too real. I swallowed it and gestured to her chair. “I mean. Glad you did.”
