~TESSA~
I was wiping down the counter when I noticed him.
Table Seven — by the window. The man had a leather jacket slung over the back of his chair, hair messy in that deliberate, careless way.
He was reading something on his phone, tapping his fingers against the table in rhythm.
That same habit.
My chest tightened before my mind could stop it. Ryder used to do that.
Tap-tap-pause. Tap.
It was how he thought. How he focused.
I swallowed, blinked a few times, and forced myself to move. Just another customer. Just another order.
“Good afternoon,” I said, picking up my pad. “What can I get you?”
He looked up — kind eyes, rough jawline, not Ryder, but close enough to make my heart stumble.
“Uh, coffee. Black. And one of those… pies. The apple one.”
“Sure thing.”
As I turned, he
