Chapter 7
1779 Words
The next few days passed without incident.
The coffee shop demanded her attention in the way it always did—deliveries arriving late, the grinder jamming at the worst possible moment, the steady rhythm of regulars who liked their orders remembered and their mornings predictable. Charlie let herself sink into it, grateful for the distraction.
There was comfort in the familiar clatter of cups and the hiss of the espresso machine. In the smell of roasted beans clinging to her clothes long after closing. Busy hands left little room for wandering thoughts.
Almost.
Every so often, she’d catch herself pausing mid-task, a flicker of awareness stirring without warning. A low warmth. A remembered presence. She’d shake it off and reach for the next order, the next problem that needed fixing.
Nothing happened. No mysterious men. No strange encounters. No explanations.
And yet.
By the third day, Charlie had to admit the absence bothered her more than she’d expected. The quiet wasn’t peace—it was anticipation without a name.
She locked up one evening and stood for a moment on the pavement, keys cool in her hand, the city humming around her. For a fleeting second, she had the unmistakable sense that she was being watched.
The feeling faded as quickly as it came.
Charlie exhaled, squared her shoulders, and headed home—telling herself, firmly, that routine was enough.
Even as something deep inside her disagreed.
That night, the dream came back—but this time it lingered where it hurt most.
Charlie was small again.
The house shook with shouting, her mother’s cries breaking through the walls like something wounded and trapped. Please, Seamus—please. The words were thin, useless. Familiar.
Then glass shattered.
Bottles burst against the floor, sharp and explosive, fragments skidding everywhere. Charlie ran barefoot down the hallway, panic choking her, pain slicing into her feet as she went. She didn’t slow. She never did.
Her mother was on the floor, arms over her head, shaking. Seamus loomed above her, rage filling the room, bottle clenched tight.
“Stop,” Charlie cried. “Please—stop.”
She stepped in front of her mother without thinking. Small arms out. Small body shaking. A shield made of bone and hope.
She stepped in front of her mother without thinking. Small arms out. Small body shaking. A shield made of bone and hope.
The shove came hard.
Charlie hit the edge of the table and went down, pain detonating through her side, her shoulder. Glass bit into her skin. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. The room swam.
“Mom,” she whispered.
Her mother looked at her.
Not with relief. Not with gratitude.
With fear—but not for Charlie.
She scrambled backward instead, dragging herself away, eyes never leaving Seamus. She didn’t reach for Charlie. Didn’t call her name again. Didn’t try to pull her close.
She chose distance. Survival.
Charlie lay there, stunned—not by the pain, but by the understanding settling heavy in her chest. She had stepped forward. Her mother had stepped back.
Seamus turned away from Charlie as if she were already forgotten.
The dream fractured then—sounds blurring, the room tilting—but that moment stayed sharp and clear.
Charlie woke with a strangled breath, heart pounding, throat tight.
The bedroom was dark and quiet. Safe.
She pressed a hand to her chest, fighting the ache that had nothing to do with old bruises or scars.
She had protected her mother.
And her mother had let her.
That truth followed her into the waking world—cold, heavy, and unchanged by time.
Charlie opened the coffee shop on autopilot.
The key stuck in the lock. Twice. She swore under her breath, the sound flat and humourless, before finally shoving the door open and stepping inside. The place smelled wrong—stale, like yesterday had never quite left.
She flipped on the lights. Too bright. Too early.
The nightmare clung to her, heavy and sour, every movement dragging. Her shoulders ached in the dull, familiar way they always did when she was tired and raw. She set the kettle on, hands steady even though everything inside her felt anything but.
Nothing went right.
The espresso machine sputtered instead of humming. One of the milk jugs slipped from her grip and hit the counter with a wet smack, sloshing everywhere. She stared at the mess for a long second before cleaning it up, jaw tight, eyes burning with irritation she didn’t have the energy to unpack.
By the time the first customers trickled in, she had the smile on. Not a good one. Just enough.
Her answers were short. Efficient. She moved through orders with clipped precision, grateful for the noise, the repetition, the way the café demanded competence even when her insides were fraying.
Someone complained about their coffee being too hot. Someone else asked if she was “all right.”
She said yes. Of course she did.
But the mood clung to her like bad weather. Every sound felt too loud, every small inconvenience a personal insult. She snapped at a delivery driver, then hated herself for it. She burned her hand on a mug and welcomed the sharp sting—proof she was still present.
By midday, exhaustion sat heavy behind her eyes.
She leaned against the counter for half a heartbeat, staring at nothing, the memory of her mother’s turned-away face flashing uninvited through her mind. The same old lesson, pressing in where it always did:
Don’t expect anyone to save you.
Charlie straightened, reached for the next cup, and kept going.
She always did.
The bell above the door chimed.
Charlie didn’t look up at first. She was wiping down the counter with more force than necessary, jaw clenched, already braced for another demand, another complaint.
Then she heard Mia laugh.
Bright. Carefree. Happy.
Charlie glanced up—and there they were. Mia practically glowing, tucked into Adrian’s side like she belonged there. His arm was draped around her shoulders, possessive and casual, his grin wide and entirely too pleased with himself.
Charlie muttered, “For f**k’s sake,” under her breath.
Of course it would be today.
Adrian caught her eye and smiled like he was doing her a favour just by existing. The kind of smile that had always rubbed her the wrong way—too smooth, too self-satisfied. He leaned in to murmur something in Mia’s ear, earning another laugh, softer this time, intimate.
Charlie’s stomach tightened. Irritation flared hot and immediate.
She couldn’t stand Adrian.
Never had. There was something about him that set her teeth on edge—the way he took up space, the way he looked around like the room owed him something. He’d always been charming in the loud, obvious way, the kind people mistook for confidence.
Mia guided him toward the counter, oblivious or pretending to be. “Morning!” she chirped. “You look… busy.”
Charlie gave her a flat look. “We’re open. That’s usually how this works.”
Adrian chuckled, unfazed. “Still sharp as ever.”
She didn’t bother responding. Just turned to the machine, shoulders tight, refusing to engage. The espresso hissed and steamed, filling the space between them with noise she welcomed.
Behind her, Mia kept talking—something about breakfast plans, something about they—and Charlie tuned it out, focusing on the rhythm of her hands, the burn of the cup as she picked it up.
She set their coffees down harder than necessary.
Mia finally seemed to notice. “Bad morning?”
Charlie met her eyes. Held them.
“You could say that.”
And Adrian, still smiling, still too comfortable, had the nerve to look amused—as if this were entertaining.
Charlie’s fingers curled against the counter.
It was already a terrible day.
And it had just gotten worse.
Adrian leaned against the counter like he owned it, one hip c****d, eyes following Charlie with lazy interest as she moved behind the machine.
“So,” he said lightly, “still playing barista, huh?”
Charlie didn’t even look at him. “Still playing personality-free gym poster?”
Mia snorted before she could stop herself.
Adrian’s grin widened, clearly enjoying this far too much. “Wow. Touchy. I was just making conversation.”
“Then try making it interesting,” Charlie said, sliding the cups toward them. “Or at least accurate.”
He picked up his coffee, inspecting it like a critic. “You always had that sharp edge. Ever think that’s why things never quite stick for you?”
That did it.
Charlie turned then, slow and deliberate, fixing him with a look that could curdle milk. “Funny,” she said. “I was just thinking the same about you. All surface, no substance. Very… wipe-clean.”
Mia shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. “Charlie—”
“No, it’s fine,” Adrian cut in, amused. “I like a woman who can give it back.”
Charlie smiled. It wasn’t friendly.
“Oh, you don’t like me,” she said sweetly. “You like the idea of me. Big difference. One requires effort.”
A few nearby customers went very quiet.
Adrian laughed, a touch too loud. “You always think you’re smarter than everyone else.”
Charlie leaned in just enough to make the point land. “I don’t have to think it, Adrian. It’s usually obvious.”
Mia winced.
Adrian’s eyes flicked to Mia, then back to Charlie, something sharper flashing behind the charm. “Still bitter, I see.”
Charlie straightened, all warmth gone. “Still unbearable. Some things really are timeless.”
She turned away, dismissing him entirely as she reached for the next order.
Behind her, Adrian exhaled through a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “She’s intense.”
Mia murmured something under her breath, embarrassed.
Charlie didn’t respond.
She didn’t need the last word.
She’d already won.
Charlie felt it before she saw him.
The air changed—subtle but unmistakable. Like pressure dropping. Like the room had tilted a fraction off balance.
Her spine went rigid.
She glanced up on instinct, and there he was.
The mystery man stood just inside the doorway, one hand resting loosely at his side, the other near the frame as if he’d paused mid-step. He didn’t smile. Didn’t announce himself. He simply looked at Adrian.
And it was brutal.
Not loud. Not obvious. Just a flat, assessing stare that carried weight—cold and razor-sharp, like a warning delivered without words. If looks could wound, Adrian would’ve been bleeding on the tiles.
Charlie’s breath hitched.
- Writer
