Page 223 of Fractured Devotion
There’s no fear.
No invitation.
Just subtle expectations.
I stop at her table, my shadow falling across the wood, and for a second, neither of us says a word.
“You ran out of places to hide,” I say, my voice low.
She tilts her head slightly, unbothered, but her fingers tighten around her cup. “I wasn’t hiding,” she answers, her words soft but firm.
I slide into the seat opposite her, closing the distance without asking.
Her gaze doesn’t waver.
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table and lowering my voice so it stays between us. “You were going to leave without saying goodbye in person.”
She doesn’t deny it.
Her eyes stay locked on mine, cool and steady. “I didn’t think there was anything left to say,” she replies.
Something in me twists, sharp and brutal.
I study her, the shadows under her eyes, the tightness in her mouth, the ache buried deep, but not deep enough, beneath her calm.
“You were wrong,” I say.
Her breath catches, just slightly.
I lower my voice even further, leaning in until there’s barely space between us. “There’s everything left to say.”
The bakery keeps moving around us, unaware.
But in this corner, it feels like the entire world has narrowed to this table.
Her walls flicker, just for a couple of seconds.
But she doesn’t run, and neither do I.
I hold her gaze, unflinching.
I won’t let her slip away this time, not without a fight.
Her stare doesn’t break, and neither does mine.
The air between us stretches thin, full of everything neither of us is ready to say aloud.
She lifts the cup to her lips, but she doesn’t drink. She just holds it there, as if using the motion to buy time.
I know that tactic too well.
“You think leaving makes this easier?” I ask, my voice calm and steady.
She finally sets the cup down, her hands steady. “I think staying makes it harder,” she says.
Her honesty hits like a fist.
I lean back slightly, letting her words settle, letting her see that I won’t flinch. “You think I haven’t wanted to walk away from this too?” My voice is rough.
