He came back.
Not the next day—that would have been the old Alex, the one who bulldozed through resistance with charm and money and the absolute conviction that wanting something was the same as deserving it.
He came back a week later. Rented a cottage three blocks from my shop. Got a haircut at the local barbershop. Started running in the mornings along the coastal path where I walked every evening, though we never overlapped—he made sure of that.
He didn't come into the shop. Didn't call. Didn't send flowers, which would have been ironic.
What he did was—nothing.
He just... stayed.
My friend Jason noticed first. "There's a guy sitting on the bench outside the bakery every morning. Looks expensive."
"I know who it is."
"He asked me if you were eating enough." Jason paused. "I told
