Thread Tightens
1081 Words
Ava had convinced herself she wouldn’t see him again. People passed through the shop every day. Strangers came, strangers left.
He was just another face. A striking face, yes, one she inexplicably remembered more vividly than she should but still a stranger.
That was what she told herself. She repeated the thought as she arranged newly delivered flowers in slender glass jars. White lilies—her mother’s favorite. Their gentle scent filled the air, stirring memories she tried not to feed.
The bell above the entrance chimed.
She didn’t lift her head.
“Welcome.”
Silence followed. Not empty, expectant.
Ava felt the slightest shift in the room. She raised her gaze. Her heart stumbled.
It was him. Again.
Today, he wasn’t wearing a coat. Just a crisp shirt, sleeves casually rolled up. He looked less like the poised stranger from before and more like a man trying to be ordinary and failing spectacularly.
A flutter rippled through her.
“You came back,” she said softly, surprised to hear her own voice speak before her mind caught up.
He studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable, eyes dark with something she couldn’t define.
“Couldn’t stay away.”
The words were simple, yet they carried weight he didn’t bother hiding.
Heat crept up her neck. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
“What can I get you?”
His gaze momentarily dropped to her hands before he spoke.
“Coffee again.”
She turned to prepare it, grateful for the distraction. His presence felt like a pull, quiet yet constant. She could feel his eyes on her back, warm and unsettling. When she set the cup down, he paid again far too much.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
His voice was gentler today. Less controlled.
More human. Ava swallowed, unsure what to do with the warmth that rose in her chest.
“Do you… work nearby?” she asked.
He almost laughed. The sound came unexpectedly, like it wasn’t something he did often.
“You could say that.”
“That’s vague.”
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth.
“I’m told I’m a very private person.”
“I can see that.”
Their eyes met.
Quiet.
Searching.
Electric.
She was the one who looked away first.
“Well… thank you for stopping by.”
Xander didn’t move. He took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving her. He didn’t stare, he memorized.
After a moment, he said quietly,
“I’ll see you soon.”
He turned and walked out. The bell chimed behind him.
Ava stood there, heart racing.
See you soon. Why did that sound like a promise?
Xander knew he shouldn’t have gone back.
Logic said stay away.
Logic was irrelevant now.
He sat in the back of his chauffeured car, untouched coffee warming his palm, though he barely tasted it. Her face replayed in his mind, soft, gentle, real and it unsettled everything he thought he knew.
Ava.
Not just a dream anymore.
At the office, Rowan lounged on the corner of Xander’s desk, arms folded, watching him with curious amusement.
“You look… not terrifying today,” Rowan said. “Did something good happen? Should we alert the media?”
Xander ignored him, opening a folder and staring at the blank page as though it held answers.
Rowan huffed.
“Talk to me. Or brood. Either works.”
Xander shut the folder.
“I need information.”
“Oh?” Rowan raised a brow. “On what or who?”
“Someone.”
Rowan whistled.
“Well, well. Someone.”
Xander’s jaw tightened.
“Her name is Ava Sullivan. She runs a small shop near Twenty-Fifth.”
Rowan’s teasing softened at the seriousness in Xander’s face.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
Both answers sat in the air.
Xander exhaled.
“I just need to know who she is. Nothing more.”
Rowan nodded slowly.
“I’ll have someone look into it quietly.”
“Discreetly,” Xander added.
“Always.”
Rowan left without another question.
Xander slid open his desk drawer and retrieved his private sketchbook. He flipped to a page drawn years ago. A little girl with soft features and a quiet smile stared back. A face too similar to Ava’s. Coincidence.
It had to be.
But his instincts whispered otherwise.Nothing about her felt like a coincidence.
That night, Ava dreamt.
She was small, maybe six running barefoot through a garden she couldn’t fully see. Sunlight spilled across her path. Laughter echoed. A boy’s laughter.
A boy called her name.
She saw flashes of him, brown hair, warm eyes, a hand reaching for hers.
A moment of peace.
Then a woman screamed.
Smoke.
Sirens.
Her mother lifted her running while a man shouted her name through the chaos.
Heat.
Fear.
Darkness.
Ava jolted awake. Her heart pounded violently. Her pillow was damp beneath her cheek. She hadn’t dreamt of that day in years or maybe she had and learned not to remember. She pressed her palms to her face, breathing deeply.
Why now?
Why after meeting him?
She stood and moved to the window. The city glowed under moonlight, quiet, slow. A stillness settled over her, the kind that felt like a moment before a storm. She touched her chest, trying to calm her racing heart.
“I’m fine,” she whispered.
But deep inside, she knew she wasn’t.
Something had been stirred.
Something old.
Something she wasn’t ready to face.
Xander didn’t sleep.
He found himself in his studio instead. A dim, paint-scented space tucked inside his penthouse, his sanctuary. A single lamp lit the desk, casting soft shadows.
He opened his sketchbook.
Pages of her stared back, eyes filled with secrets he hadn’t known how to name.
He picked up a pencil.
Lines flowed on instinct. Curves. Shadows. Softness.
When he stopped, he realized he’d drawn her as she looked that morning.
Hair loose.
Quiet eyes lifted.
Trying to understand him.
He stared.
He didn’t believe in fate.
He believed in strategy. Calculation. Numbers.
But this—
This was neither rational nor controlled.
This felt like remembering.
He traced the edge of the page with his thumb.
“Ava Sullivan,” he whispered.
Her name felt right.
He didn’t want to admit the truth forming in his mind:
This didn’t feel like the beginning.
It felt like a return.
- Writer
