The afternoon light in Marshall & Rye was thin and dusty, slicing through the front windows to illuminate floating motes in the silent air. Derek stood behind the bar, not cleaning, not inventorying, just standing. His palms were flat on the polished mahogany, his head bowed. The text from Maya hung in the quiet space around him, a cryptic cloud of potential.
We need to talk later. It’s important. It’s about Marcus. It’s… a lot.
It’s not bad. I promise.
He wanted to believe the promise. But “a lot” could mean anything. Marcus’s anger cooled into permanent frost. A demand to never see her again. A revelation that shattered the fragile hope of the last few days.
The bell above the door jingled, a sharp, intrusive sound in the stillness.
Derek didn’t look up. “We’re closed.”
“I know.”
