18. Zyran
ZYRAN
Wicked Co. looks exactly the same as it always does, with chipped paint along the window frame and a crooked chalkboard sign propped up outside, the pastel writing half-smudged from too many hands brushing against it.
I sit in my truck with the engine idling, fingers loose on the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the front window.
The clock on the dash reads just after eight; the sun has been up for just about two hours now, washing the street in that early-morning light that makes everything look cleaner than it actually is.
I should be tired, and after that nightmare, after the restless half-sleep that I usually get, my body should feel heavy and slow. Instead, there’s a restless energy under my skin that I can’t seem to shake off.
After Rhys told me that someone is looking into me, I tried working out, showering, making breakfast for myself for the first time in probably a year, and even sitting there trying to ignore the ping at the base of my spine.
But I needed to see her.
My gaze drifts across the counter inside; people move in and out of the view, reaching for drinks, tapping cards against the reader, and laughing while they talk.
She should be there, behind the counter, hair thrown up messily, dark circles under her eyes that she pretends no one noticed, and lining up the cups by size. She thinks she’s subtle.
But she’s not; she’s not there.
My grip on the wheel tightens without realizing it.
Maybe she’s just bent down grabbing something. She could even be in the back, or I could be too far away to pick her out through the glare on the glass.
Though I know that can’t be true. I have better eyesight than most, twenty-ten.
I cut the engine anyway, and the quiet that follows presses in around me harder than it should.
Stepping out, my boots hit the pavement, the cool morning air doing nothing to help the lingering edge from the nightmares still sitting in the back of my mind. My neck aches faintly, phantom pain that refuses to fully disappear no matter how many times I remind myself it wasn’t real.
And that's the excuse I make for myself for why I’m here again. Why I’m trying to find her. I need to make sure it wasn’t real, that it was all just a terrible nightmare.
The bell above the door jingles when I push inside, the smell of coffee and sugar wrapping around me instantly.
My eyes go straight to the counter, finding Esperr not in sight but Taylor, who stands there mid-pour.
Some kid I don’t recognize fumbles with lids while a short line of customers wait there, half-awake and impatient.
And she’s not there.
I scan the space again, slower, more deliberate this time. The small seating area, the corner where she sometimes wipes down tables when she rushes, or the back hallway that leads to the stockroom.
Nothing.
By the time it’s my turn and I step up to the counter, my chest is beating rapidly against my ribcage; I’m about to throw up.
“Oh, hey,” Taylor squeaks. “You want the usual?”
“She’s not here,” I blurted out instead.
Taylor pauses, her brows pulling together as she actually takes the time to look at me instead of just going through the routine. “Oh… yeah, she uh… she called off today.”
Something tight coils low in my stomach.
“Called off?” I repeat, voice even and controlled.
She nods, setting a cup down. “Yeah, she actually called in, left early yesterday too, said she wasn’t feeling well. Looked kind of rough, honestly, with that bruise… Anyway, yeah, I told her to just go home before she passed out on us.”
Left early yesterday.
Images slide back into place whether I want them to or not. The bruise darkening under her eye, the slight stiffness in her movements, the way she kept brushing everything off like it didn’t matter.
But it did; it matters—she matters. And I was the dumbass that just took her word for it and let her run home, even if I watched her.
The nightmare is still fresh, her collapsing forward on the ground, the blood soaking into my hand as I reached for her.
I swallow, forcing my jaw to unclench.
“Did she say what was wrong?” I ask, hoping I don’t sound like a crazy stalker.
Taylor shrugs. “Uh… something about her head hurting?”
It doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots; she got hit in the face hard enough to leave a bruise and split lips, and then a few hours later she leaves work early complaining about her head.
That’s not exactly a mystery; it’s the most predictable outcome, and the fact that I didn’t immediately think of it makes something unpleasant twist in my stomach.
Concussion.
She was pale when she left the diner, tired and growing quieter than usual, even when she tried to hide it behind that dry little humor of hers. I noticed all of it and still let her jog off down the street like she was made of something stronger than bone and blood.
I should’ve checked on her.
I had walked her out, watched her wince when she thought I wasn’t paying attention, and somehow still convinced myself that backing off was the respectful thing to do. That giving her space was better than hovering.
And now she’s at home with a concussion, possibly hurt, and I’m standing here feeling like an idiot for pretending last night didn’t earn at least a drop by yesterday, instead of passing out in my truck.
“Did she seem… out of it or anything?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice casual and not like I’m mentally replaying every second of the alley over again.
Taylor shakes her head, gaze slipping behind me for a moment. “Not really. Just said she wasn’t feeling great, clocked out, and went home.”
Rest.
That makes sense; that’s what anyone would do, right? Go home, take some painkillers and sleep it off, and come back tomorrow pretending everything is fine. That sounds exactly like something she would do, actually. Downplay it, tough it out, and refuse to admit when she actually needs help.
I nod slowly, more to myself than Taylor, my eyes drifting back to the empty stretch of counter where she should be standing.
I didn’t even realize I hadn’t ordered yet until now, and usually at this point she’d be almost done making my coffee without even asking me what I wanted, sliding it across the counter with that quiet little “same as always” look.
I shift my weight, suddenly aware of how long I’ve just been standing here, and clear my throat. “Uh, thanks.”
Taylor gives a distracted nod, already smiling at the customer behind me. For her, this is nothing, just a coworker calling out—she doesn’t know about the alley or that Dean punched her or the way Esperr pretends pain is optional if she ignores it hard enough.
I turn toward the door, not wanting any coffee anymore. The thought of standing here, pretending this is just another normal morning, suddenly feels ridiculous.
She’s probably fine; she could be resting, sleeping off a headache, and cursing at the lights and noise like she always does when she’s overwhelmed. Showing up uninvited would be… a lot, and crossing a line I’ve been very careful not to cross for the past year.
I mean, she doesn’t know that I know where she lives or have recently found a little spot to park my truck and watch her apartment building often.
I pause beside my truck, keys in hand, and let out a slow breath, trying to talk myself back into doing something a little more reasonable than just showing up at her home.
But the images of the punch and my nightmare persist, stubborn and vivid.
I should’ve checked on her last night.
And I hate it.
This isn’t about being obsessive or overstepping.
Or that’s what I tell myself as I unlock the truck and climb inside. For a moment I just sit there, hands on the steering wheel, staring through the windshield while the engine idles.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I put the truck in drive and pull away from the curb, heading toward her apartment.
By the time I pulled into the cracked, uneven lot outside her building, I’d already run through every reasonable excuse for being here and discarded each one.
None of them hold up very well when you’re standing outside a place you were never invited to, engine ticking as it cools, and hands resting on the steering wheel like they’re waiting for someone else to make the decision for you.
The building looks even worse in the daylight.
And I hate this place—it’s the kind that people pass by without looking too closely; that makes it easy to disappear if you wanted to.
It suits her more than I’d like to admit, and she shouldn’t be the one to disappear.
I sit there for another few seconds, staring at the front entrance, half expecting to see her push through the door with her hair a mess and that stubborn little frown she gets when she’s annoyed at the world.
When she doesn’t, the quiet stretches just a bit too long, and the unease that’s been sitting in my chest since the shop tightens another notch.
She’s probably sleeping.
That’s the logical answer, the safe one.
But the image of her every time her fingers came up to her cheek before she caught herself and forced them back down.
I exhale slowly and finally reach for the door handle of my truck, stepping out. And I don’t stop until I reach the entrance, twist the door handle, and enter into the hallway. It smells faintly like stale carpet and cheap cleaning supplies wafting from someone's apartment room.
My boots echo, bouncing off the walls as I move toward the staircase, the sound louder than it should be in the quiet space. I take them two at a time, not stopping until I reach the third floor, and I have her door in sight.
I’ve seen her disappear into the building countless times, but now—standing in front of it now feels different.
Almost more intrusive.
I pause just short of the door, staring at the chipped paint and the small scratch near the handle that looks like it’s been there for years. There’s no noise from inside, no movement or muffled voices, just silence pressing out from the other side.