Lizzy pov
"James, your soccer kit—don't forget it this time."
My voice carries down the hallway, slightly muffled by the toothbrush still in my mouth as I lean over the sink, brushing faster than necessary while listening to the familiar chaos unfolding beyond the bathroom door.
Mornings in this house don't ease in gently; they arrive all at once, loud and demanding, pulling me into motion before I've had a chance to think.
"I packed it!" James calls back.
"You said that last time," I reply around a mouthful of foam, spitting quickly and rinsing before stepping into the hallway.
"I actually did this time!"
"We'll see."
I make it halfway down the hall before I catch sight of Evan attempting to sneak past with both arms full of toys stacked high against his chest, his small body leaning back to balance the weight of them.
"Evan," I say, stopping him in his tracks.
He freezes, eyes wide, caught instantly.
"I see you."
His shoulders sink in defeat, but his grip tightens protectively around the pile.
"I just want to take them for show and tell."
"You are not taking six action figures to school."
"It's important," he insists, as if that settles the matter.
"For who? You or them?"
He hesitates, just long enough to give himself away.
"…me."
I press my lips together, the corner of my mouth betraying me with the hint of a smile.
"One," I say, holding up a single
finger. "You can take one."
He looks down at the collection like he's being asked to make an impossible sacrifice, while behind him James lets out a quiet, knowing laugh.
"Mom always wins," he mutters.
"I heard that."
The rest of the morning unfolds the way it always does, half-organized chaos that somehow results in everyone ending up where they need to be, even if it feels like we barely made it.
By the time I finally get them into the car, I already feel like I've lived through an entire day.
We make it halfway down the street before the realization hits.
"My phone."
"You always forget something," James points out from the back.
"Thank you for that observation," I reply, pulling over with a quiet sigh. "Nobody move. I'll be right back."
I run inside, grab it from the kitchen counter exactly where I left it, and head straight back out, locking the door behind me before climbing into the car again.
Round two.
School drop-off is a blur of noise and movement, kids spilling out of cars, teachers guiding them along, parents juggling coffee cups and conversations.
"Love you," I say as they climb out.
"Love you too, Mom," James replies, already distracted.
Evan leans in for a quick kiss before running after him.
And just like that, they're gone.
The quiet that follows feels sharper than it should.
Juniper & Ink steadies me the moment I step inside.
Warm light filters through the windows, catching on shelves of books and the soft hum of the coffee machine, and for a moment I just breathe, letting the familiarity of it settle into my bones.
This place still feels like mine in a way nothing else does.
The morning rush comes quickly, pulling me into its rhythm. Orders, conversation, the steady movement of hands and cups and small interactions that don't require anything more from me than presence. Here, I don't have to think about anything outside these walls.
By the time it slows, the quiet feels earned.
I reach for my phone without thinking.
Hesitate.
Then press call.
It rings longer than I expect it to.
Long enough that I know what's coming before it happens.
No answer.
Of course.
I lower the phone slowly, staring at the screen for a moment before opening our messages instead. My fingers hover briefly before I type.
Me:
How was the conference?
Do you need me to pick up laundry?
The boys miss you.
James has a game on Saturday morning. Please put a reminder on your phone.
I read it once, then again, before sending it.
The message delivers immediately.
And then-
nothing.
No typing bubble.
No response.
Just silence.
The familiar kind.
It doesn't hit sharply anymore. It settles instead, quiet and expected, like something I've learned to carry without letting it slow me down.
I set my phone aside and turn back to the counter before the feeling has a chance to linger.
The coffee machine jams ten minutes later.
Of course it does.
I crouch slightly, tapping at it, checking the filter, adjusting things that should be working but aren't.
"Come on," I mutter under my breath, trying again.
Nothing.
The bell above the door chimes softly behind me.
"Morning," I call out automatically, still focused on the machine. "Just give me a second."
Footsteps approach the counter.
Unhurried.
Steady.
Something about the sound makes my fingers still, a quiet awareness settling over me before I've even looked up.
"What will it—"
The words fall away the moment I lift my head.
Because he's standing there. And for a second, everything inside me goes completely still.
Wade.
It takes my mind a moment to catch up to what my body has already registered, like something instinctive has locked onto him before I can make sense of it.
He looks exactly the same.
And somehow not at all.
Sharper in daylight.
More real.
More overwhelming than I remember allowing myself to notice.
His hair falls loosely into his eyes, like he hasn't bothered to fix it, and those eyes, grey, steady, completely focused on me, don't move as I take him in.
He's holding a helmet in one hand, leather jacket stretched across his shoulders, filling the space in a way that makes the shop suddenly feel smaller than it did a moment ago.
My pulse stumbles.
"Wade?" I say, the name softer than I intend, almost disbelieving.
His mouth curves slowly, like he's been waiting for that exact reaction.
"Hey, granny."
The nickname lands somewhere low and warm in my chest, and I hate how immediate the response is, how my body reacts before my mind can catch up and correct it.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, lowering my voice instinctively, my gaze flicking briefly toward the rest of the shop before returning to him.
"You told me to come check out the shop."
He says it simply.
Like this is obvious.
Like showing up here was always the next step.
I let out a quiet breath that turns into a small, nervous laugh, shaking my head as I try to steady myself.
"Yeah, but I didn't think you'd actually do it."
"Why not?"
The question is simple, but it lands heavier than it should.
Because there are too many answers.
Because none of them sound reasonable out loud.
"I don't know," I say instead, leaning forward slightly, lowering my voice. "Because it didn't really matter. It was just… a drunken night full of irresponsible behavior."
Even as I say it, I can feel how thin it sounds.
Because my body remembers.
Too clearly.
His gaze doesn't shift.
If anything, it sharpens, like he's taking that in and deciding what to do with it.
"So," he says after a moment, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth, "should I go get coffee somewhere else then?"
There's something in the way he says it.
Like he already knows the answer.
Like he's watching me try to convince myself of something he doesn't believe.
I swallow lightly, gesturing behind me.
"Probably. Considering this thing has decided today is the perfect day to give up on me."
His attention flicks to the machine, then back to me.
"It's broken?"
"Not broken broken," I say. "But something is definitely jammed."
He steps closer then.
Not enough to draw attention.
But enough that I feel it.
That shift in space.
That awareness.
He sets his helmet down on the counter and shrugs out of his jacket in one smooth motion, and my attention betrays me before I can stop it.
His arms.
God.
I hadn't let myself notice properly before.
Muscle shifts under his skin as he rolls his sleeves slightly, movements easy, controlled, like he's completely comfortable here.
Or maybe he's just decided to be.
"Want me to take a look?" he asks, glancing at me again, that quiet confidence settling into his expression. "I'm really good at fixing things."
I let out a small breath, trying to ignore the way my pulse has picked up.
"Of course you are," I mutter.
His brow lifts slightly.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," I say quickly. "Just… figures."
He studies me for a moment longer than necessary, and I feel it, that look, like he's seeing more than I want him to.
"May I?" he asks, already stepping around the counter.
I hesitate.
This is where I should stop him.
This is where I should draw a line between that night and this moment.
But my body is still reacting.
Still remembering.
Still not ready to let it go.
"I guess it wouldn't hurt," I say, stepping aside.
He moves past me, close enough that his shoulder brushes mine, the contact light but deliberate enough that it sends a sharp awareness through me.
And just like that everything shifts.
Because this isn't a memory anymore.
This is real.
And I didn't stop it.