She takes a seat near the window. Visible to anyone on the street. Exactly where I’d see her if I were watching.
Which I’m not doing.
This isn’t watching. This is… situational awareness.
Or so I tell myself.
Someone lingers near the corner of the block.
I clock him without turning my head. Broad shoulders. Cheap leather jacket. Weight shifted onto one heel like he’s waiting instead of passing through.
Silas.
The recognition is immediate and unwelcome. He’s cleaned himself up since the bar—no split lip, no visible bruise—but his posture is the same. The kind of man who mistakes persistence for entitlement.
He’s not looking at me. He’s staring at the café. At Ivy.
My hands clench into fists. I angle my body slightly, enough to keep him in my peripheral vision so I can keep an eye on him. He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t retreat either. Just stands there, checking his phone, glancing up now and then like he’s deciding whether something inside is worth the effort.
Ivy doesn’t see him.
Of course she doesn’t. When Ivy focuses on something, the rest of the world becomes irrelevant.
Silas eventually drifts off down the sidewalk, disappearing into foot traffic like a problem that hasn’t been solved—just postponed.
Men like him don’t forget being humiliated. Especially when they think someone else took what they were entitled to. They just wait until they think it’s safe to strike.
He won’t get the chance.
I’ll make sure of it.
The door to the store opens behind me. Someone brushes past. I don’t move.
Aaron spots her almost immediately. I recognize the shift in his body language—the way men do when something good walks into their space. I don’t appreciate him recognizing her value that clearly.
He smiles. She smiles back.
Something in my chest tightens, sharp and sudden. I ignore it.
This is what boundaries look like, I remind myself. Distance. Control.
She laughs at something he says. I can’t actually hear it from across the street, but it rings in my ears anyway.
Her smile is genuine. The way her eyes crinkle at the corners shows unadulterated happiness.
I liked it better when that smile was aimed at me.
I watch the way she wraps her hands around the mug. The way she leans in slightly when he talks. Not flirtatious—comfortable. Present.
She checks her phone.
Once.
Twice.
Then again, a third time.
Her eyes flick to the door when someone walks inside. Then she looks back at him.
