CHERYL
“Oliver,” I repeated, like tasting a name I hadn’t spoken in years. “Is it really you?”
His smile deepened, soft and unreadable, like he was trying to decide if I was real too. He looked the same, and yet completely different. The boy I remembered had worn oversized glasses and carried too many books for one person. Now, he stood tall and self-assured, the years having carved definition into his jaw and stillness into his presence. There was something easy in the way he looked at me, casual—but veiled. Like he knew more than he let on.
“I didn’t think I’d ever run into you here,” he said, stepping closer beneath the café’s warm glow. “It’s been… what? how many years?”
I laughed softly. “More or less. You look good.”
He glanced down at himself with mock curiosity. “I clean up be
