The coffee shop hadn’t changed.
Same rustic tables.
Same pale blue mugs.
Same faint smell of cardamom and cinnamon.
Ethan sat near the window, palms flat on the table, heart pounding like he was twenty years old again and about to ruin someone’s life.
The bell above the door jingled.
He didn’t have to turn. He felt her before he saw her.
Claire.
Same long coat.
Same soft smile.
Different eyes.
Wiser. Tired. But not broken.
She walked up to the table like it was any other Saturday morning.
“Hey,” she said softly.
Ethan stood awkwardly. “Claire. Hi.”
They hugged.
It was brief. Gentle. Not warm—but not cold either.
She sat. Took a breath. Looked at him.
“You look good,” she said.
“You look better,” he replied, and meant it.
---
They ordered. Tea for her. Black coffee for
