Page 54 of Mile High Daddy

Anywhere is better than here.

I stumble to a seat near the back, my hands gripping the edges as I collapse onto it. My whole body trembles, my pulse erratic, my lungs burning.

The doors hiss shut.

The bus rumbles forward, pulling away from the street, from the wreckage, fromhim.

I close my eyes, my chest heaving.

I did it.

I got away.

15

LILA

The scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm cinnamon fills the air as I move behind the counter, wiping my hands on my apron.

The café is small, warm, and always filled with the low hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter from the students who frequent it. Sunlight filters through the large windows, casting golden streaks over the polished wooden floors and the chalkboard menu above the counter, which boasts an array of drinks and pastries.

It’s the kind of place that feels safe.

A world away from where I was months ago.

I adjust my apron and grab a fresh dish towel, wiping down the espresso machine. My shifts at Dewdrop Café have become the one thing I can count on. Every morning, I step behind this counter, and for a few hours, I can pretend that life is normal. That I am normal. That I didn’t spend months living in fear, looking over my shoulder, waiting for the past to catch up to me.

So far, it hasn’t.

“Leah,” a voice calls, breaking through my thoughts.

I glance up to see Maggie, my coworker, grinning at me from where she’s stacking fresh croissants into the display case. She’s petite with short auburn curls and an endless supply of energy, the kind of person who can charm anyone into buying an overpriced oat milk latte.

She jerks her chin toward the seating area. “Check out the guy at table six.”

I follow her gaze toward the large windows, where the afternoon sun streams in, illuminating the man sitting alone at the far end of the shop.

The moment I see him, my pulse jumps.

He’s dressed in a dark suit, crisp and tailored, the expensive fabric standing out in a place like this, where most customers wear sweatshirts and jeans. His fingers drum lightly against the wooden table, a cup of untouched black coffee in front of him. There’s an air of quiet confidence about him, the kind of presence that commands attention without asking for it.

A slow unease trickles down my spine.

For a second, just a single, horrifying moment, I think it’s Mikhail.

My hands tighten around the dish towel, and my body reacts before my mind can process, my stomach clenching, breath hitching, every muscle tensing as if preparing to run.

But when I look closer, the panic fades slightly.

His hair is too light. His jaw isn’t as sharp. He doesn’t have Mikhail’s suffocating presence, which makes every room his kingdom.

It’s not him.

But my heart still pounds against my ribs, and I feel the weight of the past pressing against my chest like a warning.

Maggie whistles low under her breath. “Damn, that look on your face. You good?”

I swallow, forcing my grip to loosen on the towel. “Yeah. Just spaced out.”

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