POV Avery :
The sun rose quietly, slipping pale rays through the curtains drawn across my bedroom window. My eyelids felt impossibly heavy, as if invisible sand had collected beneath them during the night. Not a single minute of sleep—not even a moment. Insomnia had held me hostage again, dragging with it that memory—sharp, vivid—of the accident. Like a blade pressed over and over against a wound that had never fully closed.
I pushed myself up slowly, my body numb, my throat dry. The mirror hanging beside my wardrobe reflected back a worn-out version of me: messy hair, dark circles carved under my eyes, dull skin. I sighed before forcing myself to head downstairs.
The kitchen greeted me with the smell of coffee and cold milk. It felt almost foreign, as if I hadn't stepped inside it for years. Daniel was already sitting at the table, his hair a chaotic mess—more rebellious than usual. He froze mid-bite, spoon lifted, and his dark eyes snapped up to me the moment I walked in.
"You didn't sleep much," he noted, shoving a mouthful of cereal into his mouth.
I leaned against the doorframe, forcing a smile.
"Is it that obvious?"
He shrugged, swallowed, then added in a tone that pretended to be casual:
"So… your evening?"
My eyes drifted to the counter where the coffee maker rumbled softly.
"A party is a party," I said—too fast.
Silence settled again, broken only by the sound of milk glugging from the carton. Daniel frowned a little, then attempted a clumsy smile, like he was trying to lighten the air.
"Mom didn't come home," he said eventually. "She texted me… she's still working."
His words hung between us, familiar to the point of being worn out. Mom's absence, the way we tried to paste normalcy over it… It had become a set we knew too well, a scene we played on repeat. I poured myself coffee, sat down across from him, and drank in silence.
---
The morning slipped by at the Shade Diner's like some slow-moving machine. My movements—serving, wiping, writing—followed one another with mindless regularity. But behind every gesture, one sound kept echoing, one shadow clinging to me:
That scream.
Sharp, piercing. A dissonant note nothing else could smother.
I'd promised myself I would understand. But where do you even start when everything is tangled?
The bell above the door chimed.
He walked in.
A stranger. Tall, lean silhouette, dressed simply but with a natural sort of elegance. His light shirt looked crisp, barely wrinkled. His brown hair—still slightly damp, as if he'd walked through morning dew—framed a face with regular, almost too-regular features. But it was his eyes that caught me: deep black, nothing extraordinary at first, yet somehow they cut right through me, read me. They locked onto mine without a hint of hesitation.
A shiver crawled up my neck. Not fear. Not simple attraction either. Something unstable, unsettling—something I couldn't define.
He approached the counter. Nothing in his gait was ordinary: measured, controlled, as if every step was calculated. And his smile—subtle, almost ironic—held a secret I wasn't supposed to know yet.
I stood frozen, unable to form a single word.
"Avery?" came a voice behind me. "Should I grab you a towel or something? 'Cause you're literally drooling right now."
I jolted, heat flooding my cheeks. Sam, one of my coworkers, stared at me with a wide, teasing grin. I stammered, checked my reflection in one of the metal pitchers to make sure I wasn't actually drooling, then turned back toward the stranger.
"What can I get you?" I asked, my voice a little too high.
"Iced coffee," he replied, calm and low.
I prepared the drink, my hands slightly trembling. He watched me the entire time—silent, unmoving. When I set the drink down in front of him, he didn't speak. But his eyes stayed on mine, insistent, like he was waiting for something.
Time stretched. One heartbeat. Then another. Until I finally looked away, breath caught tight in my chest.
---
The bell chimed again.
This time, my whole body tensed, primed. But it wasn't another stranger. It was a familiar face. Too familiar—a painful past wrapped in one silhouette.
Jackson Young.
His outline, though well-known, seemed different. Heavier. Tighter. His black hair—dark as raven feathers and always perfectly styled—framed a face marked by exhaustion. His eyes, deep and unwavering, still held that intensity that had unbalanced me more times than I could count. And then that half-smile—barely there, like he was trying to smooth over some invisible discomfort.
He walked toward the counter, his steps confident but just a shade too quick. He didn't look away from me once.
"Hey, Avery."
Two words. Two simple words. Yet they froze me. Because they came from him. Him, who had ignored me for months as if I'd ceased to exist. Him, who had shut me out without explanation. And now he stood there, as if nothing had ever happened.
My heart slammed painfully against my ribs. The air felt heavy—thick with resentment, broken memories, bitter silences… and something else. Something dangerously close to desire.
"Jackson…" I breathed, unable to hide my surprise.
His smile widened slightly, gaining confidence.
"So… how have you been?"
His voice sounded warm, almost gentle. But underneath it, I caught something—a fracture, tiny but real. His fingers gripped the counter's edge. A breath held between words. A shadow flickering in his eyes before he forced it away with a practiced glimmer.
Before I could respond, I felt another gaze.
The stranger. Still seated. His drink barely touched. His dark, unreadable eyes moved between Jackson and me. His smile hadn't shifted, but now it carried something new—an odd, cold amusement.
As if he had just witnessed something important.
---