The words catch me off guard. I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Do I?”
“Mm-hmm.”
I glance down, then back at her, finding no pressure or expectation, just that quiet knowing. “Maybe,” I say.
She nods like that’s enough.
“Good,” she murmurs, turning back to the table. “That’s all I need.”
And standing there, in the middle of the noise and the warmth, the smell of coffee and sugar, I let that be enough, too.
My apartment greets me the same way it always does, not empty but quiet and still, like it’s been waiting on me to come back. I switch the light on with my elbow as I step inside and push the door shut behind me, the faint click fading into the silence.
The place is small, but it’s mine in a way that sits deep in my chest. A worn sofa with a blanket folded over the arm, a bookshelf doing its best to hold too many romance paperbacks, a faint trace of lavender from the candle I burned this morning, mixing with the clean scent of dog shampoo that never quite leaves me, no matter how many times I wash my hands.
I drop my bag onto the chair by the door and kick off my shoes, letting them land wherever they fall before heading into the kitchen for a bottle of water. The cold hits my throat as I take a long drink, leaning my hip against the counter while the quiet wraps around me after a day of barking dogs, ringing phones, and Jules’ running commentary in my ear. I stand there for a moment, letting my shoulders loosen before I push off and make my way to the sofa.
The book I left here this morning is still where I dropped it, face down like it gave up on me. I pick it up and curl into the corner, tucking one leg under me as I open it and try to find my place. The words are easy, the kind of story I can fall into, but tonight they don’t stick. I read a line, then another, but end up staring at the same sentence without taking it in. After a minute, I sigh and close the book, resting it on my chest as I lean back against the cushion.
“Well, that’s not good,” I murmur, already knowing exactly what the problem is. Because the second I stop trying to focus on anything else, my mind goes right back to him.
Alexei.
Not in pieces, either.Allof him.
The way he stood in the doorway, not in a hurry or looking around like he needed to figure the place out. Like he already knew where he was, and that was enough. Broad shoulders under his coat, and everything about him put together in a way that makes you look twice without meaning to. Dark hair, a shadow of stubble along his jaw, and those ice-blue eyes that feel like they see right through you if you let them.
And Lord help me, I’ve never had much luck with men who look like they should come with a warning. It’s the way he watches and pays attention without making it feel heavy, like he sees more than he says and keeps most of it to himself.
I drag a hand over my face, pressing my palm briefly to my eyes.
“This is ridiculous,” I tell the empty room, because it is. He’s a man who walked into the shelter with his daughter. That’s it. A man I met once and accidentally tried to hand a dog treat like I’d lost my entire mind.
The memory hits, and I groan into my hand before dropping it, staring back up at the ceiling.
“Good Lord.”
And somehow, instead of making me want to crawl under a rock, it makes me laugh quietly, the sound low in the empty room. He didn’t make it worse, didn’t laugh or turn it into a big deal. He just let it pass and moved on, like it didn’t matter as much as I thought. That, more than anything else, stays with me.
My fingers tighten a little on the edge of the book as my thoughts wander, sliding past what happened into everything around it. The way he crouched down in the grass in that suit like it didn’t bother him one bit. The way his hand moved when he brushed that curl off Ivy’s forehead, like he’d done it a hundred times, careful without making a thing out of it.
I swallow, my throat suddenly a little dry despite the water I just drank.
“Okay, Maggie,” I say quietly, “we’re not doing that.”
Because I know where that road leads. I’ve been down roads that seem harmless at first, feel easy and warm, just interestingenough to follow, and I know better than to pretend I don’t see the signs. Still, my body doesn’t quite get the message.
A slow warmth builds low in my body, making me lean back against the sofa without thinking. It’s not about anything specific, not a detailed fantasy from one of my romance books, just the idea of him being closer, his quiet attention focused on me instead of from a distance.
My breath slows, my chest rising and falling a little deeper as I let the feeling move through me instead of fighting it outright.
“Good grief,” I whisper, half under my breath, because this is exactly what I tell myself I don’t do anymore. But I don’t push it away. I let it sit for a minute, just letting it be what it is. It’s that steady pull of awareness and the memory of standing in front of someone who didn’t have to prove anything to be noticed.
When it finally fades, it leaves a subtle tension behind. I let out a slow breath, my body sinking into the sofa as the moment passes.
I blink up at the ceiling, one corner of my mouth lifting. “Well,” I murmur, “that was unfortunate.”
After a second, I get up and grab my book out of habit. I turn off the lamp as I head to my bedroom, the apartment falling into shadow. I drop the book on my nightstand, pull my shirt over my head, step out of my jeans, and leave them in a pile near the bed before grabbing a towel from the dresser.
