Page 254 of Love Me in the Dark
It’s stupid, probably.
A luxury I can’t afford.
But I grab my coat anyway and head down the block to the little coffee shop tucked between a pawn shop and a laundromat that still runs on quarters. It smells like burnt espresso and cinnamon sugar, and sometimes—just for a second—it feels like another life.
The kind of life where I didn’t grow up flinching at slammed doors. Where I didn’t have to brace myself for kindness like it might explode in my hands.
The kind of life where I could accept that the company I work for would recognize the work that I’m putting in and reward me for it.
The line’s short, thank god. I order something indulgent. Extra caramel, real milk, too much foam, and wait at the counter while my stomach clenches at the price but I pay it anyway.
I’m still staring at the menu board, wondering how long this "promotion" will last, when I feel it.
That prickle.
Like I’m being watched.
Not in the usual way. Not catcallers or creeps asking for a good time. Those I brush off like lint on my shoulder
This is different. Slower.Smarter.
I glance sideways, the breath in my lungs held in case I need to make a break for it, and that’s when I see him.
Seated at a corner table near the window, alone. Reading nothing. Drinking nothing. Just… watching.
Me?
Maybe.
He doesn’t look away when I meet his gaze.
His stormy gray eyes are locked on mine like we’re the only two people in the world. Like none of the noise around us gets through the filter of his attention enough to tear him away from this silent battle of the wills.
And I can’t look away either.
He’s the kind of beautiful that makes my brain scream Danger. Dark suit. Sharp jaw. Clean lines. Not flashy, but expensive. Old money dressed like it doesn’t care what you think.
His eyes are pale. Ice over granite. And there’s something in them I can’t read. Stillness. Control. Like he doesn’t need the world to bend to him because it already does.
My heart stutters once, hard, and I hate that it does.
The barista calls my name, snapping me out of whatever spell just slithered over my spine. I grab the cup without thinking, fingers too tight on the lid.
When I glance back toward the window, he’s still watching.
Not smirking. Not checking me out.
Just watching.
And for some reason, that’s worse.
I turn and walk out fast, head down, trying to tell myself it’s nothing. Just some guy who looks like he owns the building and expects the world to kneel when he blinks. The kind who thinks everyone wants him.
Let him stare.
He’s not my problem.
Still, I glance back once over my shoulder. I lie to myself and justify it as just checking.
