She had Jenna. Had Ben. Had whatever support system she'd built for herself in this new life she'd clearly trying to start. Getting involved would only complicate things. It would make her uncomfortable. Would turn me into exactly the kind of overbearing presence she probably moved here to escape.
This is exactly why I should stay away.
Every reason made sense. Every justification landed solid.
But my shoulders stayed tense, and my jaw stayed locked, and the protective fury burning through my chest didn't diminish even slightly.
I forced myself to turn. To push through the parking lot doors. To walk to my truck with measured steps that felt like dragging dead weight.
The engine turned over with a growl. I sat there, gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white, staring at the building's side entrance.
The man's face replayed in my mind—forgettable features, careful posture, the way he'd tracked her movements with focused attention.
Maybe nothing. Probably nothing.
But my gut told a different story.
And I'd learned decades ago never to ignore my gut.
I pulled out of the parking spot but didn't drive away. Circled around to where I could see the café's front entrance. Parked in a spot with clear sightlines. Told myself I'd just wait until her shift ended. Make sure she got to her car safely. Then I'd leave. Stay distant like I should.
My hands tightened on the wheel.
This is a problem.
The parking garage swallowed me whole—concrete and shadows and the smell of motor oil thick enough to taste. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting everything in sickly yellow. My footsteps echoed too loud in the empty space.
Pain shot through my jaw.
I stopped walking, hand halfway to my pocket for keys, and forced my mouth open. Rolled my jaw once, twice. The ache spread from my temples down through my neck—muscles locked so tight they'd probably been grinding for the last hour without me noticing.
Get it together.
My truck sat three spots away, dusty and ordinary and exactly where I'd left it that morning. Before the café. Before her. Before everything tilted sideways.
I unlocked it. Climbed in. Pulled the door shut with more force than necessary.
Then I sat.
Hands on my thighs. Keys dangling from my fingers. Engine silent.
The steering wheel stared back at me—worn leather wrapped around metal, cracked in places from years of use. I'd gripped this wheel through blizzards and summer heat, through wins and losses, through every day of the carefully controlled life I'd built.
I knew every crack in the leather. Every worn spot where my thumbs rested. Right now it looked foreign. Distant. Like something from someone else's life.
You're not just failing to forget her.
The thought landed heavy, undeniable.
You're noticing threats.
The man in the hallway. His posture. His focus. The way he'd disappeared the second I stepped forward. Everything about that moment had triggered instincts I'd honed over decades—the ability to read violence before it erupted, to sense danger in the angle of shoulders or the shift of weight.
You're reacting.
I'd snapped at my team in the locker room. Lost focus during practice. Stood in that hallway ready to put hands on a stranger for the crime of watching a girl through glass.
A girl I had no claim to. No right to protect. No business thinking about at all.
