Only when we shatter

Chapter 3, Part 1: Caffeine and Fate

Jackson’s POV

Another all-nighter.

My body ached like it had been carved hollow. I peeled off my scrubs with the practiced exhaustion of someone who'd done it too many times, slipping into my trousers and a sweater that smelled faintly of antiseptic and cold air. My shoes scuffed along the floor as I left the hospital behind me—finally.

The morning was bitingly cold. Seattle’s skies were leaden, the kind of grey that didn’t promise rain but threatened it anyway. My breath hung in front of me like fragile smoke as I trudged toward The Merchants, a quiet little café nestled on the edge of Westlake. I wasn’t aiming for anything—just autopilot—but the second the scent of roasted coffee beans hit me, something in my brain lit up like a match in the dark.

I pushed through the glass doors and mumbled an order without thinking—something strong, probably scalding—and slumped onto one of the stools that faced the big bay windows overlooking the street. The bar top was warm beneath my forearms, and I leaned forward, rubbing my palms together to bring some life back into them.

Outside, the city was already humming. People bustled by in coats and scarves, clutching phones, pushing strollers, nursing takeaway cups like lifelines. But not everyone rushed. Some strolled. Lingering lovers. Elderly dog walkers. The weekend dreamers.

And I just sat there, invisible.

Except… I wasn’t.

Not really.

Girls glanced at me—some quick, others lingering. It happened often enough that I hardly noticed anymore. I’d mastered the polite smile, the small nod, the art of being seen but not followed. They weren’t what I was looking for.

I sighed, fingers curling tighter around the warmth of the coffee mug when it finally arrived.

It had been a long time since I’d let someone in. Since I’d shared space with a woman that wasn’t just temporary—transactional, even. I’d known love. I’d known lust. But I’d also learned that love comes with a steep cost, and I’d convinced myself I couldn’t afford it anymore. Work became the safest place to be. Reliable. Demanding. Numb.

But numbness was its own kind of ache.

No matter how full my days were or how many patients I saved, the nights were always long. Cold. Quiet. My bed, no matter how large, felt like a grave when I was the only one in it. And sometimes—most times—I wondered if I’d built my life too high, too tight, for anyone to reach me.

Then I saw her.

She wasn’t in a hurry. She stood just outside the window, chin tilted up as she studied the menu next to the café entrance. Her hair spilled over her shoulders in soft waves, the colour of midnight ink. Her skin was porcelain kissed by a weary sun, and her coat—a wool, soft caramel thing—wrapped around her like armour. She didn’t belong to the crowd. She floated through it.

When she looked up, I felt it in my chest—a thud, then silence.

For a wild second, I thought she was staring right at me. I held my breath.

But no—her eyes flicked past me, scanning the inside of the café. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that something in me had unravelled. Her eyes—those deep, dark pools of velvet—held a sadness I recognised. Not the loud kind. The kind that sat quietly in your bones and made a home there.

And just like that, I was undone.

I took a sip of my hot black coffee, its scent curling through the air. She caught it, her nose crinkling ever so slightly. And then came the smallest smile. A flicker. It was gone as quickly as it came, but it was enough to punch the air out of my lungs.

She was breathtaking.

And then, as if she were summoned by the force of my attention, she walked in.

She bypassed the counter and settled on a stool a few seats away. She didn’t look at me—not even once—but her presence shifted something in the room. In me.

There was a gravity to her, subtle but undeniable. I watched her fingers trace the menu, her lashes lower as she concentrated. My heart, that traitorous organ, pounded with a kind of reverence I hadn’t felt in years.

Is this real?

She didn’t know me. I didn’t know her. But her nearness calmed me. Like the way warm light spills under a closed door on a dark night. I didn’t need to speak. I just needed to sit here and share the air she breathed.

For the first time in a long time, the world felt… right.

“Small steps, Jackson,” I whispered to myself, fingers tightening around the mug. “Don’t scare her off.”

I didn’t know her name.

Didn’t know her story.

But I knew in that moment—utterly and without question—that I would never forget the morning she walked into The Merchants and unknowingly stitched herself into the tattered fabric of my heart.

I was hooked.

And there was no turning back.