Lizzy pov
The moment he disappears out the back door with the trash, I reach for my phone without thinking, my fingers already dialing before my brain has caught up with what I'm doing.
Talia answers almost immediately. "Hello?"
"You are never going to believe who is in my shop right now,"
I say, lowering my voice instinctively as I turn slightly toward the shelves, as if the books themselves might keep my secret.
There's a pause on the other end, followed by a sharp intake of breath. "Who?"
"The guy from the club," I whisper, my heart still beating a little too fast for something that should not feel like this.
Another pause, longer this time.
"No way."
"Yes way," I reply, glancing toward the back door again as if I might summon him back just by thinking about him. "He just fixed my coffee machine… and now he's taking out my trash."
"Shut up," she breathes. "You're lying."
"I'm not," I insist, though even saying it out loud makes it sound ridiculous. "He just… showed up."
"And you're just letting him stay?"
I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out.
Because I don't have a reason that makes sense.
"I—" I hesitate, then exhale softly. "I didn't tell him to leave."
There's something in the silence that follows that feels dangerously close to understanding.
"Oh my God," Talia says quietly. "Lizzy…"
Before she can finish, the back door opens.
I straighten immediately, my heart jumping into my throat.
"I have to go," I whisper quickly. "He's back."
"Lizzy, wait—"
I hang up as be steps inside like nothing has changed. Like this is completely normal.
Like he belongs here.
There's something about that, about the ease of him moving through my space, that unsettles me in a way I can't quite name.
He washes his hands at the sink, sleeves still pushed up, water running over his skin as if he's done this a hundred times before. My gaze lingers longer than it should, tracking the movement before I force myself to turn away, reaching for a cup.
"Here," I say, sliding the coffee toward him. "Thank you… again."
He takes it, his fingers brushing mine, and it's such a small thing, barely noticeable, but my body reacts like it isn't.
"Do you like sweet things?" I ask, too quickly, gesturing toward the display.
He lifts the cup to his lips, taking a slow sip, his eyes still on me over the rim in a way that makes it impossible to pretend this is casual.
There's nothing casual about the way he looks at me.
It isn't polite.
It isn't fleeting.
It's focused in a way that makes me feel seen and exposed all at once.
He nods once. "uh huh."
"Brownies?" I ask, already reaching for the tray. "Would you like one?"
He shakes his head, lowering the cup again. "No. Thank you."
The motion that follows is small, almost absent-minded, but it catches me off guard all the same, his tongue brushing lightly across his upper lip to catch the foam, the movement slow enough that my breath stutters before I can stop it.
I look away too quickly, heat rising in my cheeks as I turn toward the counter, pretending to rearrange something that doesn't need rearranging.
Get a grip.
I glance at the clock instead.
And my stomach drops.
"Crap," I murmur under my breath.
I need to leave soon.
The boys.
School pickup.
The part of my life that is real and constant and grounding.
But the thought of leaving this—of letting this moment end—settles heavily in my chest in a way that feels wrong.
Too soon.
I'm not ready.
"I—" I start, turning back toward him.
"I—" he says at the same time.
We both stop, then laugh, the sound softer than I expect, easier than it should be.
"You go," I say, smiling despite myself.
He studies me for a second before speaking.
"I didn't know you were married."
The words are calm, almost neutral, but they land with weight.
My body stills, my gaze dropping briefly to my hand as if I've only just remembered the ring sitting there.
It feels heavier now.
More noticeable.
"It doesn't feel like I am most of the time," I admit quietly, the truth slipping out before I can stop it.
The moment it leaves my mouth, I feel exposed. My shoulders dip slightly, the weight of it settling in as I try to recover.
"I mean—my husband," I add quickly. "Daniel. He works in the city. He's… busy."
Busy.
That word again.
Safe. Convenient. A shield for the reality. He's an absent father and an even worse husband.
He didn't even call.
Not on my birthday. Not the morning after.
Not even a message.
The memory sits heavy in my chest, dull and familiar, like something I've learned not to press on too hard.
"We don't see him much," I finish, quieter now.
Wade doesn't look away.
Not once.
"Too busy for his family?" he asks.
There's no accusation in his tone.
No edge or judgement. Just a steady realisation of something unspoken.
I exhale slowly, my gaze drifting for a moment as I search for something that sounds less like an excuse.
"He works hard," I say, though it sounds thinner than I intend. "It's just… the way things are."
The words feel practiced. Worn down from use. Like something I've repeated enough times that I've stopped questioning it.
Silence settles between us, not empty, but full of everything I'm not saying.
Everything I don't want to look at too closely.
Then—
"Did he know you were out that night?" Wade asks.
I blink, caught slightly off guard.
"At the club?"
He nods.
I hesitate for just a second too long.
"I mean… yeah," I say, though even I can hear the uncertainty in it. "He knew I was going out with Talia and friends."
But not really. I didn't tell him where I was going or that I was going to a club. He didn't ask either.
"He didn't mind?" Wade asks, his voice still calm, still controlled.
I let out a small breath, something almost like a laugh slipping out.
"I don't think he noticed enough to mind."
The honesty of that surprises even me.
It hangs there between us, heavier than I expect.
Wade's gaze sharpens slightly, something shifting behind his eyes that I can't quite read.
He straightens up slightly, placing his cup down on the counter and stepping closer to me.
He lowers his head slightly, dropping his voice so only I can hear.
"Did you tell him about us?"