The late afternoon sun slanted through the blinds at the café, painting gold stripes across the wooden table. Keith watched Mya stir her drink absently, her gaze distant though her hand never stopped its soft, circular motion. Damon’s visit had left its mark on her—he could see it in the way her shoulders had drawn inward, the small lines of exhaustion at the corners of her eyes.
He hated that man for that alone.
But even he had to admit, there’d been something different about Damon today. No smug grin, no theatrics—just a kind of wreckage in his eyes, like someone realizing too late what they’d destroyed. Keith wasn’t sure if he pitied him or despised him more for it.
“Hey,” he said softly, reaching across the table. “You still with me?”
Mya blinked, then gave a small smile that didn’
