[Sera]
Four days. That's how long it's been since the storm turned the break room into a confessional, and Killian Voss turned into a ghost haunting my every quiet moment. I keep replaying it—the way his hand gripped mine like I was the only solid thing in his world, the raw terror in his eyes that shattered every illusion I had of him as untouchable.
And then... nothing. No calls, no texts, no accidental run-ins. Just silence, thick and mocking, leaving me to wonder if I imagined the whole damn thing.
I'm behind the counter at the café, wiping the same row of mugs for what feels like the hundredth time. The afternoon lull has hit hard—the post-lunch crowd thinned out an hour ago, leaving the place echoing with the hum of the espresso machine and the occasional clink of a spoon.
My mov
