Callie
The cafe was louder than usual.
Not festival-loud, but busy enough that every sound layered over the next—cups clinking, chairs scraping, low conversations mixing together. The smell of coffee beans and baked bread hung thick in the air, warm and comforting in a way that felt almost cruel after the morning we’d had.
Grayson’s hand rested at the small of my back as we walked in, guiding me toward the counter.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
I nodded, even though my stomach was tight. “I’m fine.”
He didn’t argue. He never did when he knew I was lying to myself more than him.
We ordered quickly. I focused on the menu board, on anything except the way people glanced at us—some curious, some lingering too long. After everything with the festival, with Mary, I couldn’t tell what was
