She didn't belong in my line of sight. Didn't belong in my thoughts. Didn't belong this close.
Jenna nudged her forward. Olivia looked up. Saw me.
The color drained from her face.
Jenna saw me next. Her spine went rigid. That familiar stiffening—the one everyone displayed when they remembered who I was, what I'd done on the ice, the reputation that followed me off it. She didn't smile. Didn't pretend. Just locked eyes with me for half a second, then looked away.
Professional distance. Smart.
She turned to Olivia. Said something too quiet for me to hear. Nudged her forward with an elbow.
No.
Olivia's eyes went wide. Panic flashed across her face—brief, controlled, but unmistakable. She shook her head once. Small movement. Desperate.
Jenna nudged her again. Harder.
Olivia stepped up to the register.
Every muscle in her body screamed tension. Shoulders drawn tight. Hands clasped together at her waist, like she needed something to hold onto. She kept her gaze down, wouldn't look at me, and I watched her throat work as she swallowed.
Terrified.
She was terrified of me.
The realization landed like a blade between my ribs.
"Hi." Her voice came out barely above a whisper. Soft. Uncertain. "What can I—" She stopped. Cleared her throat. Tried again. "What can I get you?"
Christ.
That voice.
I'd forgotten what she sounded like. Forgotten the particular cadence, the way she shaped words with careful precision like she'd practiced being understood. She'd been younger then. A kid. Voice higher, thinner, lacking the fullness it carried now.
But the vulnerability—that hadn't changed. Still threaded through every syllable. Still present in the way she hesitated before speaking, like she expected to be cut off. Dismissed. Ignored.
My chest tightened.
I shouldn't remember her voice at all. Shouldn't have cataloged it in the first place. She'd been a job—someone else's problem that became mine for exactly one night. That should've been the end.
But I'd heard her thank me. Heard her whisper, "Please don't leave" when the medics arrived. Heard her cry in the back of the ambulance because her mother wasn't coming.
Stop.
"Black coffee."
The words came out flat. Low. No inflection. I hadn't meant them to sound threatening, but her flinch told me they had, anyway.
Her hands shook when she reached for the cup.
She froze mid-reach. Went completely still. Color flooded her face.
She knows.
Recognition hit her like a physical blow. I watched it happen—the widening of her eyes, the sharp intake of breath she tried to hide, the way her gaze snapped up to my face then away just as fast.
She knew exactly who I was.
