My phone buzzed .
Figures. Tessa never missed a beat.
Just saw the headline. You okay?
Henson is probably holding a town hall in booth three.
I didn’t reply. I couldn’t yet.
The mug warmed my palms, but I couldn’t feel anything but static. I stirred the coffee twice, even though I hadn’t added sugar. My fingers wouldn’t stop tapping against the ceramic mug. The voices in the diner blended together—some skeptical, some defensive, all loud.
They kept talking like they had the full picture. Like one headline and a few quotes added up to the whole story. But they didn’t know him. Not even close.
Another buzz. This time, Ryan.
Call me. Before I go over there and make things worse.
I stared at the message, then slowly turned my phone facedown. I knew what I had to do. But first, I needed to stop shaking.
Because whatever happened next—I wasn’t walking in angry. I was walking in ready.
I responded quickly.
I’ll handle it. I’ll call you after I talk with Colton. OK?
The scrape of a fork on a plate made me flinch. The room had become itchy and grating. I tossed a few bills on the counter, grabbed the bag and the tray with two coffees, and headed for the door.
I sat in Mae’s parking lot for a solid minute before unlocking my phone. The diner windows glowed with warmth behind me, but my hands were cold. I opened his thread and stared at the blinking cursor. It wasn’t hesitation, not exactly. Just weight. What I said next was important.
On my way over. Coffee + your favorite cinnamon bun. No pitchforks, I promise.
I turn the ignition on. "Not exactly Shakespeare." Hopefully, I had set the right tone.
I stood in front of his apartment door, the scent of coffee rising from the cardboard tray in one hand and a paper bag warm against my palm in the other.
The cinnamon bun inside had a little too much icing—just the way he liked it. I wasn’t sure if this counted as a peace offering, interrogation, or something in between.
I knocked twice.
I wasn’t sure what I expected—an apology? A mess? Nothing at all?
My stomach was tight, my fingers cold despite the tray in my hand. I wasn’t walking in as someone who ran Timberline or the person assigned to be his handler.
I was walking in as someone who had a choice.
And I was about to make it.
I heard footsteps on the squeaky floor coming closer.
Deep breath. Here goes nothing.
The door creaked open.
He looked like he hadn’t slept. Hoodie, sweatpants, hair still damp from the shower or maybe from running his hands through it one too many times.
Crap. I forgot how good-looking he is. Only Colton could go through the ringer and still show up looking this damn good.
He blinked at the coffee tray, then at me. "That for me?"