Millie

The scent of vanilla still clung to my clothes, a faint ghost of the cupcakes I'd baked. My shift was over, and the quiet of my apartment felt oddly expectant.

Not the quiet of peace, but the quiet of simmering tension. It wasn't just the rain drumming against the window; it was the rhythm of my own heartbeat, a frantic drum solo against the muted sounds of the city.

Brandon's words, uninvited, barged into my thoughts, each one a tiny stab of self-doubt. Nobody cares about your little baking hobby. His voice was so sure, so dismissive. And the worst part was that a small, insecure part of me believed him, like he was some kind of mirror showing me things about myself I'd been too naive to see.

I closed my eyes, trying to shake it off. It's not true, Millie. People care. Your friends care. You care. But it was hard not to wonder if he'd been onto something. What if he'd only said what everyone else thought but was too polite to voice? Maybe I came off as desperate for approval, eager to please. I hated feeling like this, and yet here I was, letting him live rent-free in my head.

I reached for my notebook—a familiar comfort—and wrote, No self-deprecating, Miriam. The words sat stark against the page, a reminder I'd written so many times it was practically a mantra. But tonight, the usual comfort wasn't kicking in. I turned to the mirror, trying to find something steady in my reflection.

I jotted down responses for if—or when—John came back with an excuse. "No worries, it's not a big deal." "I totally understand." "It's fine, really."

I tried them in the mirror, adjusting my voice and expression, aiming for that balance between politeness and a touch of indifference. But each version reflected back something different—anxiety, maybe a hint of resentment, or something even softer that I didn't want to admit to. My eyes kept flicking to the clock, each tick stretching the silence, a growing weight of what might happen if he came back. The image of him in that familiar brown leather jacket filled my mind, and I could almost see the intensity in his eyes.

The next day, I arrived at the diner, the aroma of roasted coffee beans filling the air. I hadn't even tied my apron when I saw him, already seated at his usual booth with a cup of coffee. My breath hitched, my pulse quickening as I walked over, feeling a mix of anticipation and nerves.

He looked up, his expression softening slightly, but there was something sharp in his gaze—a guardedness that hadn't been there before. I forced a steady breath, pushing down the flutter in my chest.

"Millie," he began, his voice low and controlled. "I'm sorry for the way I left yesterday. It wasn't... appropriate."

The words hung in the air, a quiet, careful apology. His eyes held that same reserve, making me feel vulnerable and unsure of what to say. Before I could respond, the diner doors swung open loudly, and a delivery guy appeared, arms stacked with boxes, swaying a little under the weight.

A prickle of unease shot through me at that entrance and as I tensed, instinctively moving a step closer to John. And then I saw it—a subtle shift in his stance, like a switch had flipped. He rose, his eyes narrowing slightly, his entire frame taking on a quiet but unmistakable alertness. It was like a dark current ran through him, one that hadn't been there seconds before.

My stomach clenched, an odd mix of curiosity and unease fluttering through me. Who was he, really? This wasn't just a man who came in for coffee. There was something darker, something barely contained beneath the surface.

He positioned himself slightly ahead of me, the movement so natural it felt instinctive. Every line of his body was tense, yet controlled, like he was ready for anything. The delivery guy had no idea, just glancing between us with a half-smile, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from John. The intensity, the way he moved—it was almost mesmerizing, in a way that made me want to both lean in and pull back. A part of me was drawn to it, while another part whispered to keep my distance.

When John reached for the boxes, our arms brushed, and a spark shot up my arm, settling low in my stomach. I tried to focus on anything else—the weight of the box, the slight worn texture of his leather jacket—but my gaze kept drifting to his hand, strong and steady, his knuckles faintly scarred. The warmth of his touch lingered, a sensation I couldn't shake. I looked up, and for just a moment, his eyes met mine. There was something unreadable there, a quiet intensity that made me shiver.

Once the delivery guy left, he turned back to me, the faintest hint of awkwardness softening his expression. "I wanted to make it up to you for leaving so abruptly. How about coffee, on your first day off?"

His invitation was both formal and sincere, a calculated gesture to repair the damage. Although I'm not sure why he bothered. It's not like he owed me anything. But inside, a small, insistent voice whispered that this was a chance—a chance to discover something more about him.

I hesitated, a blush creeping up my neck, caught between wanting to say yes and trying not to seem too eager at the prospect of maybe shedding some light on the mystery that was him.

"Sure, I'd like that," I replied, forcing a casual tone. Nonchalance, personified, I thought, sarcastically, but then I saw the slightest change in his face, as though a weight had lifted.

"Two days from now, then?" I asked, trying to maintain the casual tone in my voice.

"Two days from now," he repeated, and I felt my stomach swoop as he nodded, almost as if he were relieved. And with that, he turned back to his booth, leaving me standing there, anticipation pooling in my chest.

Later that afternoon, Annette and Tom ambushed me with twin grins, their eyes sparkling with mischief.

"So," Annette whispered, leaning in, "what's the scoop?"

Tom nudged me, grinning. "Yeah, Millie. You and Mr. Mysterious?"

I hesitated, caught between wanting to keep it private and the undeniable thrill of sharing even a fraction of what had happened. "It's nothing, really," I said, trying to play it down, but they weren't buying it.

"Oh, come on," Annette said, her eyes gleaming. "We saw the way he was lookin' at you."

"Yeah," Tom added with a smirk. "Coffee, huh? Sounds like more than a little 'makeup' chat."

I rolled my eyes, tossing a dish towel at him, but I couldn't help the small smile that slipped through. Despite myself, their teasing felt like a grounding force, steadying me in a way that made my chest feel lighter.

"Fine, maybe it's… coffee, but not a date." I clarified, earning another round of grins. It wasn't a date. Obviously. It was…gratitude coffee? I cringed.

"Sure, sure," Tom said, his voice laced with teasing, pulling me from my head, and Annette just winked. I ducked my head, moving to pick up an order, feeling that sense of belonging with them, the ease of a small, tight-knit circle. But even as I laughed with them, I couldn't shake the anticipation humming beneath my skin, or the way my eyes kept drifting to his booth, as if he were somehow still there.

When I got home, the rain had turned to a steady drizzle, pattering softly against the window. The hum of my refrigerator filled the silence as I sank onto the couch, pulling out my notebook again. I tapped the pen against the page, the rhythm matching the beat of the rain, each drop heightening the strange, restless energy that had followed me from the diner.

Part of me wanted to scribble out everything—my worry, my curiosity, my bewilderment—but I didn't know where to start. I glanced around my small apartment, the faint scent of vanilla still clinging to the air, and let out a sigh, sinking further into the quiet.

And then, his face surfaced in my mind. That intensity in his eyes, the quiet but almost dangerous way he'd moved, the way he'd positioned himself between me and the delivery guy without a second thought. The small peppering of scars on his hands. The moment had felt like something I shouldn't have witnessed, like I'd seen a piece of him that wasn't meant to be seen, yet here I was, unable to stop thinking about it.

As the rain dripped down the window, I wondered whether it was smart, indulging my curiosity enough to peel any of those layers of mystery that surrounded him. A shiver that ran down my spine in anticipation was answer enough.