His gaze drifts over me as I approach, not possessive exactly, but aware in a way that sends heat curling low in my stomach anyway.
“You look beautiful.”
The corner of my mouth lifts because I was just thinking the exact same thing about him.“Trying to make up for the stalking last night?”
“No.”He sets a second coffee down on the table beside him.“It’s the truth.”
That presses against something tender inside of me.I glance toward the cup.“You ordered already?”
“I hope that’s okay.”His eyes flick toward the counter.“I got you a double espresso, shot of chocolate.”
The warmth that moves through my chest is immediate and deeply unfair.“You remember my order?”
“I remember everything about you.”The words settle between us quietly.It’s not a flirt.
Not exaggeration.It’s just his truth.And somehow that’s worse.Or better.I honestly don’t know anymore.
A small smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it.“Still subtle, I see.”
“I don’t think I was ever subtle with you.”
No.He really wasn’t.I look away first, partly because I need the second to steady myself and partly because he’s watching me with entirely too much focus for eleven on a Sunday morning.
He’s chosen a small table near the window, tucked partially away from the rest of the café.Not hidden exactly.Just quieter.Intentional.Always intentional.
“You picked the least people-filled corner in the entire place.”
“I like hearing you talk without distractions.”
There it is again.That impossible intensity.Not overwhelming.Not performative.Just… Hayden.
I settle into the chair across from him, wrapping both hands around the warmth of my cup while outside, leaves tumble down the sidewalk beneath a cold gust of wind.
For a second, neither of us speaks.And strangely, it’s not awkward.It feels familiar.Like slipping into something I thought I lost years ago and somehow finding it still fits.
Chapter Thirteen
Hayden
It’s Not Over
Daughtry
For the first twenty minutes, we talk about absolutely nothing important.And somehow it feels more intimate than the dinner did.Maybe because there’s no tension hanging over this conversation.No loaded questions.No careful circling around the past trying to decide which parts are safe to touch.It’s just easy.I’d forgotten how dangerous easy could be with Vanessa.
“You still hate oat milk?”She says it around the rim of her coffee cup, one brow lifting slightly as she watches me take another drink.
“It tastes like sadness.”
A laugh escapes her instantly, warm enough that several people glance up from nearby tables before going back to their laptops.“There he is.”
I lean back slightly in my chair.“Who?”
“The Hayden I remember.”
Something in my chest shifts quietly at that.Because I’m not entirely sure I’ve really done more than exist these last few years.Outside the window, leaves scrape across the sidewalk beneath another gust of wind, the gray October sky pressing lower over the city while the café buzzes around us with low conversations and the hiss of steaming milk behind the counter.
Vanessa tucks one leg beneath herself in the chair, fingers wrapped loosely around her cup while she talks about a restoration project at the museum involving a nineteenth-century landscape painting damaged during storage transit.Most people would make that sound boring.Vanessa somehow makes it sound fascinating.
