Page 52 of Hide From Me

Twelve

Raylen

12-28-2025

Fae's Diner

Have I been ignoring Moe for a week? Yes. Yes, I have. Do I feel guilty as hell every time a message lights up my phone with some sweet update about his day or a missed call I dodge with a half-assed “Sorry, I’m tired”? Absolutely. But I can’t stop. Not when I’ve realized he’s getting too close to pieces of me I’ve spent years trying to bury. Not when his hands have touched me without hurting. Not when he’s seen the cracks and didn’t try to seal them—just kissed the broken parts like they mattered.

That night, he held me in my bed—no pressure, no pushing. Just curled around me, fully clothed, his arms tight and warm as his mouth pressed to mine over and over again. Between kisses, he whispered questions—soft ones about things I liked, things I hated, and things I didn’t even know anyone would care to ask. His body was tense against mine, hips grinding just enough for me to feel how badly he wanted more, and yet… he never took. He just held me. Kissed me until the tears stopped. Until I fell asleep so deep I didn’t even feel him leave.

When I woke up, there were three messages waiting. All sweet. All gentle. All Moe.“Good morning.” “Hope you slept well.” “I miss you already.”And that’s the problem. It’s too good to be true. I can’t let myself fall into something that will only crack me open wider. I need to be smarter than that.

“Hot plate!” Jack’s yell cuts through my spiral, yanking me back to the diner. I drag myself away from the bar, slouching toward the kitchen window just in time to grab a plate that, despite his warning, isn’t remotely hot.

It should’ve been chocolate chip pancakes mocking me from the plate. But I’ve been avoiding him so hard it’s like he doesn’t even notice. You’d think he’d have come storming through my door by now, demanding an explanation, cracking some joke to get under my skin. But nothing. It’s like he knows I need space, and he’s actually giving it. Or… maybe he’s just busy, like always.

I take the plate over to Harley—same order, same time, same table. A creature of habit. Strawberries, grapes, French toast, and lavender tea. Predictable. Safe. I used to find comfort in the routine, too. But Moe? He’s the exact opposite. Every time I think I’ve figured him out, he flips the script. Keeps me guessing. He’s always ten steps ahead and somehow still standing right next to me.

“Thanks, doll,” Harley grins, slipping two dollars onto the table like clockwork. I give him a tired smile and tuck the bills into my apron. My head’s too foggy today. Everything’s off-balance. I shouldn’t be like this—this isn’t what casual feels like. Casual doesn’t make you ache.

“I need a smoke break,” I mutter, sliding through the kitchen door.

“You don’t even smoke, remember?” Jack calls after me, voice dripping with smug amusement. “Or are you suddenly into it now that it smells like your boy toy?”

God, he’s insufferable.

“Shut up.” I don’t even look back. I shove the back door open and step into the drizzle. The air is thick with that pre-storm tension, the kind that coats your skin before a single drop hits. I close my eyes and tilt my head to the sky, letting the mist settle across my face. It feels cleansing in a way my brain won’t allow.

And I hate to admit it, but with all this Moe chaos twisting inside me, I haven’t had the usual panic attacks every time I hear a man’s voice behind me or see a shadow that looks too much like Lance’s. Maybe that’s what Moe does. Maybe he distracts me from the monsters still breathing down my neck.

I raise my arms slightly, letting the rain trace over my palms like it could scrub away every touch that’s ever left a scar. The boys. The men. The bastards who thought my body was theirs to own. They always took a piece. Always left mehollow. Maybe you have to hurt to heal—but why does someone else always get to be the one doing the hurting?

I whisper into the mist, “Damn you.”

The door slams open behind me, crashing into the brick wall hard enough to jolt me out of my trance. I whip around.

“Break time’s over! We’re getting swarmed in here!” Jack’s panicked voice makes no sense. I’d only been out here a few minutes, and the diner was nearly empty when I left.

“What day is it?” I ask, storming past him.

“The twenty-eighth. Table two already got their drinks, but they’re picky about their food timing—”

I wasn’t actually asking for the date, I just needed to know the day. Normally I’m on top of these things—knowing what days I need to mentally prepare for that’ll be the most draining.

Ignoring Jack, I slow my steps to calmer ones as I approach the swinging door to the dining area. I can’t hear the chatter of a large crowd and it doesn’t feel warmer in here like it typically would if we were packed.

That ass hole. My focus drops to the plate, my hand braced firm against the barrier separating me from the monster lurking on the other side.

Fucking chocolate chip pancakes.

I don’t have to turn around to see the triumphant smirk accompanying Jack's little hum as he waltzes around the kitchen like he didn’t just purposely do this.

They don’t get to win.

I square my shoulders and step out into the dining area, scanning the room. And there he is. Flame-red hair, broad shoulders hunched slightly as he scrolls through his phone. That half-smile tugging at his lips like he knows I’m coming.

My heart trips over itself.Goddamn him.

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