Your sanctuary. Two years since you swore it off—since you couldn't bear the corners where his voice still echoed, where his smirk still haunted the afternoon light.

But today you needed it. Just coffee. Just normal.

Then you see them.

His arm is draped over the back of a chair. A woman sits beside him—young, pretty, with warm brown eyes and a laugh that tinkles like wind chimes.

Her hand rests on his forearm. He doesn't pull away.

He lets her.