They Are Mine

Chapter One

Juliet

I sip my vanilla latte, pretending to scroll through my phone while I watch him, my sweet, oblivious Noah, moving behind the counter. The hum of the espresso machine rumbles beneath his off-key humming, a soft, comforting dissonance. He sways a little as he wipes the steamer wand, his hips moving in an absentminded rhythm.

He does that when he’s in a good mood.

I love that about him. I love that I know that about him.

I know a lot of things now.

Like how he rolls his sleeves up when he’s flustered, the fabric bunching at his forearms, revealing smooth, sun-kissed skin. How he fidgets with the strings of his apron when he’s nervous, winding them around his fingers, pulling, releasing, pulling again. How his smile is never just in his lips, it’s in his whole face, in the soft crinkle at the corners of his eyes, in the warmth that spreads over his cheeks like the world has never once hurt him.

I want to protect that. I want to keep that.

I press my cup to my lips, letting the warmth bloom through me. He closes in ten minutes. I know this because I’ve been here every day this week, timing his shifts. I know how long he takes to wipe down the counters (seven minutes, always starting at the far left and working clockwise), how he counts the till with careful precision (twice, always twice), how he rubs the back of his neck when he’s tired, fingers dragging over the fine hairs at his nape.

This is my moment. Our moment.

I take a deep breath, smoothing my pink skirt. My nails are perfect, soft, pale pink with delicate little hearts. Noah likes soft things. Kind things. He’s drawn to warmth, and I am nothing but warmth when I want to be.

He’s walking toward the door, and so am I.

I time it perfectly, just as he reaches me, I spin, pretending to be distracted, and…

Collision.

The impact is brief, but electric. The solid warmth of his chest against my shoulder. The scent of him, coffee, vanilla, something clean and safe, wrapping around me like a weighted blanket. My phone flies from my hand, clattering to the floor.

I let out the softest, sweetest little sound of distress.

Men love that sound.

“Oh shit,” Noah says, instantly crouching. His fingers close around my phone, quick and sure, his brows pulling together in concern. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

His voice. A little rough, a little breathy, like he hasn’t quite caught up with the moment.

I press a hand to my chest, making my eyes go wide. “Oh my gosh, no, I should be apologizing! I wasn’t paying attention.”

He hands me my phone, his fingers brushing mine. Just the faintest touch, but I feel it. A whisper of warmth, a barely-there press of skin against skin. I could swear he hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough for the moment to stretch, pull, hum between us like a live wire.

Then he smiles. Like I’m cute. Like I’m something delicate that needs to be handled carefully.

I want to sink my teeth into him.

Instead, I let out a breathless little laugh, letting my fingers linger just a fraction longer than necessary. “Thank you, Noah.”

His ears turn pink.

I love when men blush.

I tilt my head, letting my gaze drop, pretending I just noticed his name tag. “Noah,” I say again, softer this time. Testing it out. Tasting it.

He rubs the back of his neck, grinning. “Yeah, that’s me.”

I step just a little closer, my lashes fluttering. “That’s such a cute name.”

His smile falters, just for a second, just long enough for me to see the exact moment his heart skips.

Oh, Noah. You’re already mine.

“I’m Juliet,” I say.

Forward, maybe. But hesitation is failure.

I was timid once. I let shyness ruin my first love, let it steal what was meant to be mine.

He never even knew I existed. Peter. And I’ll never make that mistake again.

Not with Noah.

He smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. His fingers tug at the strings of his apron, a nervous tic. I adore it. His scent hits me again, soft but unmistakably masculine. Not sharp or dangerous, Noah isn’t like that.

He’s kind. He’s good. He’s mine.

“You work here a lot, huh?” I ask, keeping my voice soft, lilting, like I just happened to notice.

He lets out a breathy laugh. “Uh, yeah. Pretty much live here.”

I smile, and his blush deepens.

This is it.

He’ll ask for my number. He’ll thank fate for making him bump into me. He’ll…

“Oh, uh…” He hesitates.

Something in my chest tightens.

“Um… I should get going,” he says, shifting on his feet. “I gotta close up. It was nice meeting you, Juliet.”

…What.

No.

I blink.

I wait.

Say it, Noah.

Ask.

But he doesn’t.

He just waves.

And then he turns away.

Back to work. Back to his life.

Without me.

Something goes very still inside me.

For a moment, my thoughts are white noise, my pulse too loud in my ears, a strange, empty pressure building in my chest.

I don’t move.

I don’t breathe.

Then my fingers curl around my phone, nails pressing into my palm, the sharp bite grounding me.

It’s fine.

It’s fine.

He’s just shy. That’s all.

Just one of those sweet, quiet boys who hesitate when they shouldn’t.

It’s not his fault.

I force my breath to steady, swallowing past the heat rising in my throat.

Outside, the air is crisp, but it does nothing to cool the warmth pressing at my skin. My lace-up heels click against the pavement, sharp and deliberate.

This isn’t how it was supposed to go.

Noah is a romantic. I know he is.

He’s the type to fall in love easily, the type who craves connection, who would worship his girlfriend if he had one.

And he doesn’t.

Which means he should have asked me.

I slide into my car, my grip firm on the wheel.

I don’t leave.

Instead, I watch him.

Same as yesterday. Same as the day before.

He sweeps the floor first, slow and careful, like he actually enjoys it. Then he counts the till, twice, locks up the register. Thirty-two minutes, five more than yesterday, three less than the day before.

Never more than ten minutes off in either direction.

I make a note in my journal.

The only time he deviated was Monday. He got a call.

Probably a friend.

Probably someone who doesn’t know he belongs to me.

I exhale slowly, tapping my pen against the cover of my notebook.

I was so stupid when I was younger.

Waiting. Wishing. Hoping.

Peter never even noticed me.

I spent years making sure that would never happen again.

Dug into school, got a good job, my own car, my own place.

I have everything.

Everything except him.

Noah.

He finally steps outside, locking the door behind him. Then makes his way toward his car. Economy model. Practical. Safe.

I wait until he turns the corner.

Then I start my car. And follow.

Just until I know where he lives.

Just until I can figure out my next move.

Noah doesn’t know I’m behind him.

He doesn’t look around, doesn’t hesitate at intersections, doesn’t even consider the idea that someone might be watching.

He’s so trusting. So unaware.

It’s adorable.

He drives exactly the speed limit the whole way home, another note for my journal, and pulls into a small apartment complex on the quieter side of town. Older buildings, but clean. A row of neatly trimmed bushes lines the sidewalk, and there’s a cluster of mailboxes near the entrance.

He parks.

I park.

From my spot across the street, I watch as he steps out of his car, stretching. He rubs his eyes, yawning, then lifts his arms in a stretch, fingers splayed wide, back arching just enough to make his sweater ride up.

Oh.

I go still, breath catching, the air in my lungs turning thick and warm.

The sliver of bare skin is nothing, just a flash of his lower stomach, the soft curve leading into the waistband of his jeans, but it sends a sharp, liquid heat curling through my limbs.

God, I want…

I shift in my seat, pressing my thighs together, pulse thrumming beneath my skin.

Does he even know how beautiful he is?

He ruffles his hair lazily, shaking off the exhaustion of the day, and I imagine running my fingers through it instead, imagine gripping it, tugging, tilting his head back to expose more of that soft, perfect skin.

A deep exhale leaves my lips.

I need to be closer.

But not yet.

He moves toward the mailboxes, and I lower myself in my seat, watching through the slit between my dashboard and the steering wheel. He flips through his mail, bills, junk, something in a small package.

Nothing important.

Then, she appears.

I stiffen.

She’s about Noah’s age. Maybe a little older.

Maybe.

Dark hair, thrown up in a ponytail, strands frizzing in the humidity. No makeup. Bare face, plain. Dressed in leggings and an oversized hoodie, shapeless, like she doesn’t care how she looks. Like she doesn’t understand that women are supposed to try.

She carries a bag of groceries, keys looped lazily around her finger, and nudges his arm like she has the right to touch him.

I clench my jaw.

Don’t touch him.

My nails dig into my palm, but I force myself to stay still, to stay quiet.

Noah smiles.

I stop breathing.

But it’s not the same.

Not bright and dizzy like it was with me.

Not rosy-cheeked and breathless, like he couldn’t believe his luck.

Just… polite.

Nothing more.

I relax, exhaling through my nose, my grip on the steering wheel loosening.

She’s nothing.

He doesn’t look at her the way he looked at me.

He doesn’t linger.

There’s no hesitation, no spark, no pull in his body that I can see.

Just a small wave. Just an easy dismissal as he turns away, heading toward his apartment.

I allow myself a small smile.

I was being silly.

She’s no one.

My fingers curl around the door handle before I even think about it.

He’s in there now. Right now.

Maybe watching TV, maybe cooking, maybe stretching again, that sweater riding up just enough for me to…

I swallow hard, pressing my back against the seat. Not yet.

I have to be patient.

I have to do this right.

Instead, I take out my notebook, flipping to a fresh page.

Apartment 103.

Bottom floor.

That makes things easier.

I lean my head back against the seat, eyes drifting to his window. The blinds are drawn, but I can imagine him in there. I can picture it perfectly.

Him, unwinding from his shift, kicking off his shoes, running a hand through his hair.

Him, warm and sleepy, unknowing, unguarded.

I should have come here the first day I saw him.

I should have found him sooner.

I mean, when you know, you know.

But love takes time. That’s what they say, right?

You build something beautiful.

You earn something worthwhile.

And Noah?

He’s worth it.