Olivia
I peeled off my coffee-stained work shirt and tossed it toward the hamper. Missed. Didn't bother picking it up.
The apartment felt too quiet, the kind of silence that made every thought louder than it should be. I stripped down to my underwear and stood in front of the mirror longer than I meant to, cataloging flaws I knew Ben wouldn't notice. Wouldn't care about even if he did.
My hair was a mess—frizzy from the steam and humidity of the café, smelling faintly of espresso and burnt milk. I grabbed the elastic from my wrist and pulled it into a ponytail, then immediately took it back down. Too casual. Too much like I wasn't trying.
I rifled through my closet with increasingly frantic energy.
Everything felt wrong. The sweater Rhys had held that night hung near the back, soft fabric mocking me with memory.
I shoved it aside hard enough the hanger clattered against the rod.
Settled on jeans—dark, fitted enough to be flattering without screaming desperation—and a simple blouse.
Navy blue. Safe. The neckline showed nothing, promised nothing, demanded nothing in return.
I buttoned it with trembling fingers.
This shouldn't feel like betrayal.
I stared at my reflection, jaw tight, refusing to acknowledge the guilt twisting low in my stomach.
Rhys didn't want me. Not really. He wanted me in dark hallways and empty spaces where no one could see, where he could kiss me breathless and then vanish like I'd imagined the whole thing.
He wanted me enough to pin my wrists above my head, enough to make me forget my own name—but not enough to stay. Not enough to choose me.
Ben was safe. Normal. He asked me to dinner like a regular person, smiled at me like I wasn't something broken he needed to fix or avoid. He didn't look at me like touching me might destroy us both.
I grabbed my jacket from the chair, checked my phone one last time.
No messages.
This was moving forward. This was choosing myself.
This wasn't betrayal. It couldn't be.
I quickly straightened my hair, getting rid of some of the frizz, but not all. Frowned. Considered hairspray, but decided against it.
The knock came five minutes early.
I grabbed my bag and pulled open the door to find Ben standing there with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. His hair looked freshly washed, still damp at the edges, and he'd swapped his usual work hoodie for a button-down beneath the jacket.
He was trying. Really trying.
"Hey." His grin was wide, boyish, a little nervous. "You look great."
Heat crept up my neck. "Thanks. You too."
He did. Clean-cut, approachable, exactly the kind of guy I should want. The kind who wouldn't kiss me like the world was ending and then disappear into the night without a word.
"Ready?" He stepped back, gesturing toward the parking lot.
I locked the door behind me and followed him down the narrow hallway, acutely aware of the silence between us.
Not uncomfortable exactly, just... present.
He filled it with small talk about traffic and the restaurant he'd picked, his voice carrying that eager edge of someone who wanted everything to go perfectly.
His car was older but clean, parked under one of the few working streetlights. He moved ahead of me and pulled open the passenger door before I could reach for the handle myself.
I froze for half a second. "Oh. Thank you."
"No problem." He waited until I slid inside before closing it gently, then jogged around to the driver's side.
The gesture was sweet. Thoughtful. Normal. And I hated that my brain immediately conjured Rhys—dark eyes and controlled stillness, the way he moved through space like he owned it without ever demanding anything.
Ben slid into the driver's seat, still smiling, still trying so damn hard to make this easy for me. I forced myself to smile back. He turned the key, and the engine coughed to life, warm air blasting from the vents a moment later. He fiddled with the heat dial, glancing over apologetically.
"Takes a minute to warm up. Sorry."
"It's fine." I buckled my seatbelt, tucking my hands between my knees. "Really."
He pulled out of the parking lot with careful precision, checking his mirrors twice before merging onto the main road. The radio played something soft and forgettable—pop station background noise that filled the silence without demanding attention.
"So," he started, drumming his thumbs against the steering wheel in time with the music. "Have you tried Italian around here? There's this place downtown that's supposed to be amazing. Family-owned, been there forever."
"I haven't really explored much yet." The admission felt smaller than it should have. "Haven't had time, I guess."
"Right, yeah. You've been working nonstop since you started." He shot me a quick look, warm and understanding. "Jenna runs a tight ship."
"She does." A genuine smile tugged at my mouth. "But she's good at what she does. I've learned a lot already."
"She likes you, you know. Said you pick things up fast."
Heat crept into my cheeks. "She said that?"
"Yeah." His grin widened. "Don't tell her I told you, though. She'd probably deny it just to keep you on your toes."
I laughed—soft, surprised by how natural it felt. "That sounds like her."
We slowed at a red light, and Ben used the pause to glance over fully, his expression open and easy. "You settling in okay otherwise? The city, the apartment, everything?"
"Getting there." The lie came smoothly, practiced. "It's an adjustment."
"Where'd you move from?"
My stomach tightened. "A few hours north. Small town. Nothing special."
He nodded like that made perfect sense, not pressing for details I couldn't give. The light turned green, and we eased forward again, streetlights washing over the windshield in rhythmic intervals.
"Well, if you ever want company checking out the city, I know some good spots. Low-key places mostly, but—" He shrugged, almost shy. "I don't know. Could be fun."
"Yeah. Maybe."
The word came out softer than I meant it to, caught somewhere between gratitude and guilt I couldn't quite swallow down.
Because sitting here felt safe. And safe should have been exactly what I wanted.
The restaurant was tucked between a bookstore and a dry cleaner, easy to miss if you weren't looking for it. Warm light spilled through the front windows, golden and inviting against the darkening street. A hand-painted sign hung above the door—Bella Notte in flowing script.
Ben held the door open, and I stepped into heat and the smell of garlic, tomatoes, fresh bread.
Small tables crowded the space, mismatched chairs and checkered tablecloths that should have clashed but somehow worked.
Soft Italian music drifted from speakers I couldn't see, barely audible beneath the quiet hum of conversation.
"This okay?" Ben appeared at my elbow, close enough I felt the brush of his jacket against my arm. "I wanted something nice. For a first date."
The knot in my stomach pulled tighter.
"It's perfect," I managed, meaning it and hating myself for the hollow feeling underneath.
The hostess—a woman in her sixties with silver hair and a warm smile—led us to a corner table near the back. Ben pulled out my chair before I could reach for it, that same careful thoughtfulness from the car door.
I sat, murmuring thanks I barely heard myself say.
He settled across from me, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it over the chair back. "Their pasta's incredible. Homemade. The kind that ruins you for the boxed stuff forever."
"Sounds dangerous."
He grinned. "The best things usually are."
I reached for the menu, fingers closing around the worn laminated edge, and my gaze snagged on the entrance. Empty doorway. Just the hostess station and the street beyond. No one coming in. No broad shoulders in a dark hoodie. No unreadable dark eyes scanning the room until they found me.
I forced my attention back to the menu, jaw tight, furious with myself.
Stop it.
Ben was talking about the wine list, something about a recommendation from a friend, but the words blurred together. My eyes drifted toward the door again before I could stop them. Still empty. Still just warm light and strangers and the faint clink of silverware against plates.
I pressed my thumb against the edge of the menu hard enough it hurt.
Rhys wasn't coming. Rhys didn't even know I was here. And if he did, he wouldn't care.
Ben talked with his hands when he got excited—gestures that punctuated stories about his photography professor who hated digital cameras, about the time Jenna caught him giving free pastries to a kid who looked hungry, about how he'd almost dropped out of school twice before figuring out what he actually wanted to do.
He was sweet. Earnest in a way that should have been endearing.
Was endearing.
I nodded at the right moments, smiled when he paused for effect, let the warmth of his energy wash over me like background noise.
But my mind kept drifting.
The waiter brought bread, and I tore off a piece mechanically, buttering it without tasting.
Ben launched into another story—something about a disastrous first shift at the café involving an espresso machine malfunction—and I tried to focus on his face, the animated way his eyes lit up, the laugh lines that appeared when he grinned.
Then my eyes fluttered closed for just a second. And I was back in that hallway.
Rhys's hands circling my wrists. The cold wall against my back. The heat of his body caging me in, all controlled power and restrained violence. His mouth on mine like he was drowning, and I was air.
Heat flooded through me, sudden and unwelcome.
My eyes snapped open.
Ben was still talking, oblivious, gesturing with a breadstick for emphasis. I shifted in my seat, thighs pressing together, trying to shake the phantom sensation of Rhys's fingers tightening above my head.
The memory wouldn't leave.