Page 35 of The Comfort Trap

"That's what you were doing this morning," he says. "With the stereo and the flowers. You were creating your own scenario, taking control of the narrative."

"Damn right," I say, grinning back. "I didn't wait for the perfect moment or the right words. I made one. Because life's too short to be passive."

I see a shift in his expression. The wariness is still there, but it's joined by curiosity. A glimmer of the man behind the barista apron.

"You're different," he says softly.

I feel a warmth spread through my chest. "So are you." I push my empty bowl forward, signaling for the check. "Next time,you're telling me about yourrecord collection. And then I'll let you see how it feels to hit one-hundred in a drifter outside the city."

Patrick tilts his head in thought. "Okay. I'll hold you to that," he says. "You know… You're really good at this. You’re more charming than I gave you credit for."

I tense slightly. "I'm not," I admit. "I've never... I've never had a steady boyfriend, nothing longterm anyway."

"Shit," He props himself up on an elbow, searching my face in the dim light. "Was I your first?" he asks, his tone gentle.

"No," I shake my head, holding back a laugh. "But it's different with you. The others... they were bodies. Just moments. But you..." I trail off, struggling to find the words.

"I what?" Patrick prompts softly.

"You're electric," I finally say. "You're driven, outspoken, you take charge. I admire that. I like that." I pause. "Most people I've been with, they drain me. They take and take until there's nothing left. But you give me energy. You make me feel alive."

His expression softens. "So that's why you keep coming back," he murmurs, more to himself than to me. "You think I'm your spark."

I smirk. "I don't think it. I know it."

The café's ambient noise fades to a dull hum while I see him processing what I've told him.

Then Patrick's phone buzzes on the table, the sudden intrusion pulling him back to reality. His thumb begins jabbing at the screen like he's trying to punch through the damn thing. The warm flush that had risen to his cheeks moments ago drains away, leaving him pale under the shitty fluorescent lights.

"Hey," Patrick says, not looking up from his phone. "Sorry to change the subject. I'm having a great time, but… I'm actually kind of worried about Aubrey right now."

I lean against the counter, watching him. "Why? What's up?"

"He tried to call me a dozen times this morning," Patrick says. "He sent a melodramatic text saying he was about to be kidnapped. But ever since then, he's been leaving my texts on read."

The grin falls off my face so fast it practically never existed. I push myself back from the counter, the warmth from our conversation gone cold.

Kidnapped? Aubrey's got a flair for the dramatic, sure, but leaving Patrick on read after a claim like that? That's not just Aubrey being Aubrey. That's a problem.

"Give me your phone," I say. Patrick slides it across the counter without argument, his face already a mask of worry.

I scroll through the messages, my stomach twisting tighter with each word. The first few texts are not unusual—something about Eli being an asshole, a picture of a sad-looking dog at the coffee shop, a complaint about the traffic. But then there it is: "If I never see you again, I love you." Followed by, "You better love me too." And finally, the one that makes my blood run cold: "I'm definitely about to get kidnapped. Can you call me?"

"Shit," I mutter, handing the phone back. "Did you call him?"

"Of course I called him," Patrick snaps, his voice tight with panic. "I called him a million times. It goes straight to voicemail. So does Eli's."

He's already dialing Eli again. The phone rings, and rings, and rings, until finally, the dreaded voicemail kicks in. The robotic sound cuts through the tension, every word a fresh punch to the gut."You've reached Elijah Cruz. I don't check my voicemail, you loser."

The beep is somehow mocking, a tiny electronic laugh in the face of our panic.

Patrick's face goes white, his knuckles gripping the table so tight I'm surprised the wood doesn't splinter under the pressure. He's already redialing, his thumb jabbing at the screen.

"He never answers his phone," Patrick says. "Never. Not even when he knows it's me."

All I see in his face is pure, unadulterated fear. "I tried to help Aubrey out with money," he says, the words coming out in a rush. "He's in pretty bad. My cousin knows some guys who, uh, can do favors you don't normally get opportunities for."

The pieces click into place with a sickening lurch. "Wait," I stop him. "You saying that your cousin is a gang member?"