Chapter 3
When Eyes Collide
The fog dampens everything, making my hair curl into frizzy tendrils at my temples. My blue scrubs are wrinkled because I shoved them in my bag last night instead of hanging them properly. Dr. Martinez will notice. She notices everything.
Perfect.
I yank open the door to The Daily Grind and the bell chimes overhead.
Warm air envelops me—a contrast to the damp chill outside that I almost sigh with relief.
The smell hits immediately: fresh-brewed coffee, cinnamon rolls baking, that buttery sweetness of pastries in the oven.
The espresso machine hisses, steam rising as someone froths milk.
Soft indie music plays from speakers I can’t see, barely audible over the morning crowd.
The line stretches halfway to the door. Of course it does. Because I’m late and the universe is apparently conspiring against me today.
I glance at my watch again. 7:08. I need to be at the clinic by 7:30.
It’s a five-minute walk if I hustle. I can make it if the line moves fast. I shift my weight from foot to foot on the scuffed hardwood floor, mentally counting the people ahead of me.
One, two, three, four… five customers. Five people standing between me and the caffeine I desperately need to survive this day.
“Morning rush,” the woman ahead of me says brightly, turning to flash me a friendly smile. “Always packed this time of day.”
I nod and offer my polite smile—the one that looks pleasant enough but doesn’t actually reach my eyes or invite further conversation.
I don’t have the bandwidth for small talk today.
Not when I spent half the night wide awake, my brain playing a greatest hits compilation of Zayn memories I’ve spent five years trying to forget.
Zayn is back.
The thought hits me again, just as brutal as when Harper dropped the bomb last night. Everything inside me clenches, that awful pressure building behind my ribs. I stare blankly at the menu board without actually reading it, my mind spiraling through questions I have no business asking myself.
Why did he come back? What if I run into him? What would I even say? Would he try to talk to me? Does he still look the same, or has five years changed him completely? Did he come back for me?
No. Stop. This isn’t some romance novel where the hero returns to his small hometown to win back his lost love. That’s fiction. In real life, men who walk away don’t suddenly reappear with grand gestures and second-chance declarations.
The line shuffles forward. I catch my reflection in the mirror behind the counter and immediately wish I hadn’t.
My dark hair is yanked back in a messy ponytail, wisps escaping to frame my face.
Dark circles shadow my eyes like bruises.
I should’ve at least concealed them with makeup.
But what’s the point? It’s not like Zayn would even recognize me if he saw me now.
You’re lying to yourself, the honest part of my brain whispers. You chose this coffee shop specifically hoping you might run into him.
“No, I didn’t,” I mutter under my breath.
The woman in front of me glances back, eyebrows raised.
I pretend to cough.
Another customer collects their order and leaves.
Four people remaining. I let my eyes wander around the familiar space—mismatched vintage couches, reclaimed wood tables, overstuffed armchairs clustered by the windows where students hunch over laptops.
The exposed brick walls display local art in bright, chaotic colors that Harper absolutely love.
The bell above the door chimes again.
The energy in the room shifts.
Not obviously—the espresso machine still hisses, the music still plays, conversations continue—but something subtle changes in the atmosphere, like everyone collectively drew a small breath at the exact same moment.
I turn toward the door on instinct.
And freeze completely.
Zayn Blackwell stands in the doorway.
My heart slams against my ribs once, twice, then plummets straight into my stomach. My fingers go numb and tingly, pins and needles spreading up my arms.
He’s taller than I remember. Or maybe just broader through the shoulders. The lanky twenty-one-year-old has filled out into a man whose frame threatens to split the seams of his charcoal suit. His dark hair is styled differently now—close-cropped on the sides, longer on top, looking expensive.
But it’s the tattoos that steal my breath completely.
The ink I remember stopping at his forearms now extends past his wrists, covering his hands in designs—vines wrapping around his fingers like rings.
New additions. And there’s something on his neck now too—a wreath tattoo that peeks above his crisp white collar, dark lines climbing toward his jaw.
He looks the same but entirely different. Older. More serios. More… everything.
His eyes—those impossible blue-gray eyes I used to get lost in for hours—sweep across the coffee shop. And then they land on me.
Our gazes collide across the crowded room and suddenly I can’t hear anything. It’s exactly like those ridiculous movie moments where everything goes silent and fuzzy except for the two people staring at each other.
Five years evaporate like they never existed.
I’m eighteen again, standing on the cliff path with his arms wrapped around me, his voice rough in my ear as he whispers “always” into my hair.
Then I’m reading that text about the Seattle job offer, my hands shaking so badly I can barely hold my phone.
Then I’m curled on the bathroom floor sobbing until I throw up, wondering why I wasn’t enough reason for him to stay.
He takes a step toward me. Every muscle in my body coils tight, preparing to bolt.
He doesn’t look away. Not even for a second. His eyes stay locked on mine like I’m the only person in this entire crowded coffee shop. Like he’s been searching for me. Like he’s been wandering through a desert and I’m the first water he’s seen in miles.
I’ve read this exact scene in dozens of romance novels. The moment when the separated lovers see each other again after years apart. It’s supposed to feel electric and magical and heart-stopping in the best possible way.
I feel like I’m going to throw up all over my shoes.
My hands tremble. My mouth has gone completely dry. I can’t move, can’t look away, can’t do anything except stand here frozen while Zayn Blackwell stares at me from across The Daily Grind like the past five years didn’t happen.
“Vanilla latte with almond milk, extra shot, for Sophie!”
The barista’s voice cuts through the spell like scissors through silk.
I blink hard, tearing my gaze away from Zayn.
Sound rushes back in—conversations overlapping, cups clattering, the hiss of the espresso machine.
I’m a woman standing in a coffee shop having a panic attack while her ex-boyfriend watches.
I stumble forward, nearly knocking into a chair in my desperation to reach the counter. I almost drop the cup when the barista hands it to me.
“Thanks,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
I clutch my coffee like a lifeline and turn toward the exit.
But Zayn is there, standing directly in my path to freedom.
I have to walk past him to escape. There’s no back door, no alternate route, nowhere to hide.
I fix my eyes on the door behind him, tighten my grip on my cup until the cardboard crinkles, and force my feet to move.
One step. Then another. Breathe. Don’t look at him. Just get outside.
I’m almost past him when he says it.
“Sophie.”
Just my name. Nothing else. But his voice is deeper now, rougher around the edges, textured with something I can’t identify. It sends shivers racing down my spine even though the coffee cup is burning my palms.
I don’t stop. I don’t look up. I push past him and burst through the door into the fog-thick morning air.
The cool dampness hits my overheated face but I barely register it.
All I can feel is my heart trying to jackhammer its way out of my chest and the flush burning across my cheeks.
I make it maybe three steps from the door before my legs give out and I have to lean against The Daily Grind’s window, fighting to catch my breath.
In. Out. In. Out. Like those breathing exercises Sara keeps keeps telling me to try.
Coffee sloshes over the rim and splashes across my scrubs.
The hot liquid soaks through immediately, scalding my skin, but I barely feel it.
All I can process is how Zayn said my name.
How he looked at me. How surreal it is seeing him in the flesh after five years of pretending he was a character from my past, not a real person who could walk back into my present.
I stare down at the brown stain spreading across my blue scrubs.
Fantastic. Now I look like I’m completely falling apart, which—let’s be honest—I am.
Dr. Martinez is definitely going to notice this disaster.
But focusing on the coffee stain is easier than thinking about what happened. About who I just saw.
I press my back against the cool glass, feeling the condensation seep through my top.
The coffee aroma mingles with the salty scent of ocean that perpetually hangs in Bellrose’s air.
People stream past on the sidewalk, probably wondering why some woman is plastered against a coffee shop window clutching a dripping cup with trembling hands.
Blood rushes so loudly in my ears that I can’t hear anything else.
Not the cars rolling past. Not the shops cranking up metal shutters.
Not even the seagulls that are always screaming overhead like the world’s most obnoxious alarm clocks.
All I can hear is Zayn saying my name like it still matters to him.
All I can see is the way he looked at me—like I’m still someone important.
Which is insane. Completely insane. He left me. He chose a job in Seattle over building a life with me here. His promise of “always” came with an expiration date that hit five years ago.
So why am I standing here shaking, feeling like someone just knocked my whole world upside down?
I peel myself off the window. Force my feet to move. One foot, then the other, heading toward the clinic. I’ll be late if I don’t hustle. And I’m never late.
Except today. The one day Zayn Blackwell decides to walk into The Daily Grind at the exact moment I’m there. In my romance novels, they’d call that fate, destiny reaching out with both hands. In real life, it’s bad timing.
My phone buzzes against my hip. I juggle my coffee to fish it out—a text from Sara lighting up the screen.
Hope you're having a good morning! Let me know if you need anything. Love you!
I stuff my phone back in my pocket without responding. I can’t handle Sara’s sweetness right now. Can’t explain how seeing Zayn for half a minute broke apart five years of holding myself together.
Coffee continues dripping onto my shoes as I walk faster, my sneakers squeaking against the damp sidewalk. I should toss the cup—it’s lukewarm now and half-empty anyway—but I keep gripping it. The cup in my hand is real. The coffee stain on my scrubs is real. My job waiting for me is real.
Zayn Blackwell standing in that coffee shop, looking at me like he still knows me, like he has any right to say my name?
That feels like a fever dream. A nightmare. I’m still not sure which.