Whenever I tried to explain why something hurt, he’d sigh and call me dramatic, like my feelings were an inconvenience instead of valid. Over time, I started second-guessing my own instincts, my own memory, until I wasn’t sure if I was too sensitive, tired, or just losing my mind. The breakup was necessary. We weren’t healthy together. To him, we were just “on a break,” another rough patch we’d smooth over. To me, it was the first step in learning to trust myself again and to stop mistaking familiarity for love.
I told him it was over. Clearly. Repeatedly. But Travis never heard what he didn’t like. He treated my no like a pause button. Showed up uninvited. Texted as if nothing had changed. Spoke in “we” and “when” instead of “if.” As if I’d been with him long enough to forget why I left.
Levi was a good friend of my overprotective cop older brother, and he—along with half the Sweetbriar Police and Fire Departments—had promised to keep an eye out until Travis gave up.
Great, right?
Just what every girl wants, an interfering big brother and a pack of burly first responders watching her back. Wait. In any other circumstance, that would be a great start to a bedtime fantasy, but unfortunately, not in this case.
When we were kids, Levi had been my best friend. Nerdy library lunches, inside jokes, shared notebooks full of half-baked ideas about the future. Then freshman year ended, and I spent a summer with my cousins. When I came back, he’d changed.
Sophomore year, everything shifted. Levi grew taller almost overnight, lost his braces, made junior varsity as a wide receiver, and suddenly, he had this easy confidence that drew people in like gravity. He had a whole new circle—teammates, cheerleaders, the kids who sat at the loud tables in the cafeteria. But worse, girls noticed him. They flocked to him in the hallways, giggling at his jokes, touching his arm when they laughed, asking him to the homecoming dance before I even knew there was a dance.
I watched from the edges, still the quiet girl with the library books and the hand-me-down clothes, feeling smaller every time someone else got his attention. I told myself he’d outgrown me, that I didn’t fit in his shiny new world, and instead of saying anything, I just stopped waving back. Stopped saving him a seat. Then I stopped being the one he looked for first in a crowd. The drift wasn’t dramatic. There was no big fight, no slammed doors. It was me quietly deciding I wasn’t enough to keep up. Even now, years later, when he looked at me with that same steady warmth, part of me still felt like that fourteen-year-oldgirl watching him shine without me, convinced I’d only dim the light if I tried to stand closer.
Since then, we had been careful non-best friends, more than acquaintances but less than we used to be, bound by a shared history we never fully acknowledged. A gentle flicker of nostalgia sometimes appeared in half-smiles and conversations that lingered a second too long. A few months ago, he drunkenly proposed to me in a parking lot; I decided he probably didn’t remember. He never brought it up. Neither did I. We both seemed content to chalk it up to too much whiskey, not enough sense. I pushed it out of my mind whenever it crept back in, but it wouldn’t stay out. It was maddening. It brought up feelings I once had for him—the ones that never left me, even when I was with Travis.
We still shared the same people—my best friend Harper, his twin brother Jude, the small circle who’d grown up with us—so our paths crossed easily, unremarkably. In a town this small, that felt almost comforting. And I knew Levi’s steady sense of duty wouldn’t let him drift far if he thought I might need him.
But I wasn’t in trouble, and I didn’t need anyone. If Travis showed up one more time, I was finally going to lose my temper and kick his ass all the way back to that fancy condo we used to share. I was done explaining. Done negotiating. Some things weren’t meant to be salvaged. Travis and I were one of them.
But it was too early to talk about any of this with Aunt Aggie. “I’ll see you tonight,” I called over my shoulder.
Coffee. That was what I needed—something hot, strong, and uncomplicated. The best coffee in Sweetbriar was from Violet’s Café, which sat on the corner of Main Street in a strip mall in the center of town with flower boxes spilling petunias and spiky evergreen shrubs under the windows and a painted sign swinging gently in the early-morning, blustery rain. I parked and made a mad dash for the entrance, head down against the wet,and by the time I hit the door, I was thoroughly defeated by the weather. My coat was soaked through at the shoulders, my shoes squeaking, my hair plastered to my face in a way that I could feel without needing a mirror to confirm. I pushed inside and shook my hood down, scattering cold droplets in a wide arc, and stood there for a moment dripping onto the wood floor like something the rain had finally given up on.
Of course.Of all the mornings to look like a drowned rat.
I smiled anyway when the bell over the door sang its littlebing-bongchime. Instantly, the world shifted. The rain-lashed streets were behind me, and warmth and sugar waited ahead. The kind of warmth that hits you in the chest when you’ve been cold long enough to forget what the alternative felt like. I could feel it moving through me already, my fingers tingling as they thawed, the tight, cold coil of the morning loosening just slightly.
The café smelled like coffee, cinnamon, and butter, like comfort wrapped in a hug. The wood floors were scuffed in the kind of way that told you stories had happened here. The mismatched tables shone with polish, each one surrounded by chairs painted in every shade of purple imaginable—lavender, plum, eggplant, lilac. A table of knitters in the corner clacked needles, their mauve and violet seats like a patchwork quilt around them. A pair of toddlers squealed in grape-colored highchairs while their moms sipped lattes.
Even the fact that Violet was Levi’s big sister couldn’t keep me out of this place. The coffee was that good. This place was cozy, charming, and entirely unsafe for my heart, because…there he was.
Crap.I should have known better. But since I’d spent my lifenotknowing better, I persevered and fought the temptation to turn tail and bolt.
Levi Barrett stood at the counter, broad shoulders beneath a long-sleeved, faded navy Sweetbriar Fire Department T-shirtthat fit just right across his chest, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscles of his forearms, etched with years of hauling hoses and axes. His dark hair was a little too long, curling at the nape of his neck and falling over his forehead in that careless way that made my fingers itch to brush it back. He had classic features—a strong jaw shadowed with a day’s stubble, a straight nose, high cheekbones that caught the light when he turned his head. But it was his gorgeous blue eyes that always undid me—steady and warm, like they’d seen too much fire and smoke but still found something worth smiling about.
He laughed at something Violet said, low and easy, the sound landing somewhere in my chest, and for a second, I forgot how to breathe.
So yeah, I had some feelings for my former best friend. The inexplicable kind that came and went, hovering somewhere between a wistfulwhat ifthat was based on the tragic knowledge that I’d thrown a lot of good years away on my stupid ex. And the fact that he’d never stopped being a friend to me, no matter how many times I pushed him away and tried to keep things surface-level between us.
Too much came rushing back at once—the Holloway’s Pub parking lot, his slurredmarry me, the way I’d tucked him into my bed and slept on the couch, trying to decide if I wanted him to remember his drunken proposal in the morning or not.
He had acted as if nothing had happened, but sometimes I caught a flicker in his eyes that made me wonder if maybe he was pretending he didn’t remember. Needless to say, I avoided Levi whenever possible, but it was too late for that now. My boots squeaked on the wood as I froze. He turned. And just like that, the air between us changed. Stupid nostalgia. Stupid drunken proposal. But most of all, I was so, so freaking stupid for not addressing it when it happened.
I pretended not to notice him and studied the chalkboard menu. Today’s special: Cross-Your-Heart Cinnamon Rolls. Of course, Violet had inadvertently named a pastry after the childhood promise Levi and I used to make to each other.
I read it three more times without absorbing a single word.
The line inched forward. I felt him behind me before he said anything, the quiet displacement of air, the warmth at my back. Apparently, he’d abandoned whatever place he’d held at the counter to fall into line behind me instead. Six-foot-four inches of heat and cedar-and-smoke scent. I fixed my eyes on the menu like it was the most interesting thing I’d ever read. Raspberry scone. Blueberry muffin. Lavender shortbread. I cataloged every item slowly, deliberately, as if I were preparing for an exam, as if the man standing close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off him wasn’t making every coherent thought dissolve one by one.
Every purple chair, every cozy corner felt too small.
“You’re shivering,” he said, voice low.
“I’m not.” I kept my eyes on the menu. “I mean, it’s raining and cold, like usual. Who isn’t shivering?”
“You’re all wet. Want my hoodie?”
