Only when we shatter

Chapter 3 (Part 2):Caffeine and Fate

Bella's POV



The jet lag was a killer. After more than twenty-four hours of flying and a full night of coma-like sleep, I woke up with a gnawing hunger that couldn’t be ignored. My head felt like cotton wool, and every limb moved like it was wading through syrup. But my stomach? It demanded carbs, caffeine, and civilisation.

Still in a daze, I threw on some jeans, brushed my fingers through my hair, letting them breathe around my shoulders and ventured out along Fulham Avenue in search of breakfast. The winter air slapped some life into me. My new apartment was perfectly situated—nestled near the scenic stretch of Westlake. The lake shimmered beneath a silvery overcast sky, its surface rippling with the occasional gust of wind. People moved briskly around me, bundled in coats and scarves, coffee cups in hand.

I stumbled upon a café called The Merchants—a sleek, moody space with industrial lighting, exposed brick walls, and the comforting aroma of roasted beans that reached straight into my soul. It reminded me of home. Very Sydney. Very me.

I paused outside and studied the chalkboard menu on the front window. Everything looked elevated—ricotta pancakes with cardamom maple, Turkish eggs, kimchi toast. Definitely not your average bacon and eggs kind of place. I stepped inside, drawn in like a moth to warmth.

The interior buzzed with quiet energy. College kids tapping away on laptops, couples curled in conversations, and solo patrons like me—seeking sanctuary in a hot drink and some solitude. I gravitated toward the long bar-style table that lined the massive bay windows. It offered the best view of the lake and, more importantly, a buffer from conversation.

Or so I thought.

I’d barely settled in when I heard a deep voice—smooth and slightly amused—cut through the morning lull.

“The Mexican breakfast special is good.”

I turned my head, mildly startled. Two stools down sat a man. A devastatingly attractive man.

He was tall, effortlessly stylish in a way that suggested he wasn’t trying. His dark hair was tousled, like he’d just run a hand through it. His eyes—oh God, his eyes—were the kind of green that made you question if emeralds were too dull. He had a book placed upside down on the counter in front of him and a half-empty cup of coffee cradled between his hands.

I froze mid-glance, caught somewhere between fascination and horror as I realized my mouth was slightly open. I snapped it shut, heat flooding my cheeks.

“Oh. Thanks,” I managed, eyes flitting back to the menu as if it suddenly required my full academic analysis.

I buried my face in it, my fingers trembling slightly as I pretended to read. My brain refused to engage with the text. I could feel his eyes on me—warm, curious.

I peeked sideways again. He was smiling.

Smirking, actually.

My heart performed a weird double thump.

I ducked back behind my menu like a turtle withdrawing into its shell and muttered under my breath, “Fuck.”

“I beg your pardon?” he asked, his voice playful now.

I looked up, flustered. “Sorry?”

“You said something. It sounded like… hmm. ‘Fuck.’” His eyes sparkled with amusement.

Of course he heard that.

My hands flew up as I stammered, “I—I wasn’t cursing at you.”

“Didn’t think you were.”

Great. Mortification level: catastrophic.

Just as I was praying for the ground to open up and swallow me whole, a waiter approached to take my order, rescuing me from further embarrassment.

“Do you do poached eggs with hollandaise?” I asked, desperately hoping the Greek chorus in my head would stop shouting Why are you like this?!

The waiter blinked. “With bacon or salmon?”

“Just… just the eggs on ciabatta. That’s fine.”

“Drink?”

“Flat white, thanks.”

“I'm sorry?” he looked confused.

I winced. “Uh… like a cappuccino, but less foam?”

Still blank.

“You know what, cappuccino is fine.”

I sighed as he walked away. So much for bringing Australian coffee culture to Seattle.

“You’re very particular about your coffee,” the voice beside me commented again.

God, he was persistent.

I exhaled and peeked over at him, trying to muster some composure.

“Yes. I am. Aren’t you?” I asked, hoping to sound cool. Or at least functioning.

He shrugged and leaned back slightly, arms crossing over a perfectly fitted sweater. His sleeves strained a little against biceps that had no business outside romance novels. And the way his clothes sat on him—tailored wool trousers, rich brown tones, polished leather shoes—made it feel like I’d walked into a GQ cover shoot.

He was annoyingly flawless. I, on the other hand, was a hot mess with coffee confusion, travel bloat, and zero flirt game.

“Jackson,” he said, offering a hand. “Jackson Ivory.”

The name landed with the kind of confidence you only get from years of being effortlessly attractive.

I stared at his outstretched hand as if it might bite me. Then up at his face. His smile was boyish and charming.

“Bella,” I replied, my hand finally finding his.

A jolt zipped through me the moment we touched—like static electricity mixed with something deeper, something unnerving.

I pulled back quickly, startled. Did he feel that?

If he did, he didn’t show it. He was too busy grinning at me like he had all the time in the world.

“You new to Seattle?” he asked casually.

“How’d you guess?”

“You have that wide-eyed look. And you said ‘flat white’.”

I laughed awkwardly, brushing my bangs from my face.

“Well, thanks for outing me,” I muttered. “Next time I’ll come with a neon sign.”

“I also like the accent,” he said, his voice dropping just a fraction.

And just like that, I was blushing again.

We chatted a little more—awkward small talk on my part, effortless charm on his—and then my breakfast arrived. Mercifully.

He asked, almost softly, “Do you want me to leave you alone?”

I looked at him, mid-bite, caught off guard.

“No, it’s fine,” I mumbled.

He stood anyway. “It was lovely to meet you.”

And just like that, he was gone.

I stared at the empty stool beside me and exhaled. Had I just completely tanked what could have been the meet-cute of a lifetime?

Then I saw the book he’d been reading. Still sitting where he left it.

I pulled it towards me. Unbroken, by Otsumiko. I'd never heard of it. Flipping it open, I found a number scribbled inside the cover.

555-01647.

I blinked at it. Was this… a move?

Had he left me his number?

I stared at it for a long moment. I should leave it there. I really should.

But five minutes later, I stuffed it into my bag and fled the café.

God help me.