Chapter Six
Saturday mornings are sacred.
Not in a dramatic, life altering kind of way, but in the quiet, deeply personal sense of something protected, something intentionally untouched by the rest of the week.
There are rules, unspoken but absolute. No alarms, no rushing, no dressing up, no emotional damage before caffeine.
I follow the rules with the kind of devotion usually reserved for things far more important.
I pull my hair into a loose knot, the kind that will inevitably fall out by mid morning, and tug on a pair of leggings and an oversized sweatshirt that definitely has a questionable stain on the sleeve.
I don't investigate it. Instead, I choose peace.
Sliding my feet into my sneakers, I take a second to appreciate the simplicity of it all.
It's a good day. A beautiful routine. No one to impress or be someone else for.
Sundays are easy, comfortable and mine alone.
"Ooh, nice," I coo as I step outside my front door.
The air is cool in that early morning way that feels like a gentle wake up rather than a shock to the system, and I breathe it in as I step onto the sidewalk.
The street is quieter than usual, softened somehow, like the entire world has collectively agreed to slow down for a few hours. No urgency. No pressure. Just space.
Perfect.
Exactly what I need. I put my headphones in and listen to an audiobook on the casual, easy walk to sustenance.
By the time I reach the coffee shop, a small line has already formed, which feels both predictable and faintly offensive given the sanctity of the morning. Still, I step into place, letting the familiar rhythm of it settle around me.
"Hi!" the barista chirps when I reach the counter. "The usual?"
"Please," I reply, smiling easily.
I step off to the side, tucking my hands into the sleeves of my sweatshirt as I wait. My mind is quiet—well, quieter—and I let myself exist in that rare, in between state where nothing is pulling at me too hard.
I'm watching the steam curl lazily from the espresso machine when I feel it.
The shift.
Sharp. Immediate. Unmistakable.
It doesn't hit me like panic. My shoulders don't tense, my breath doesn't stutter. I don't turn right away.
I just know.
"Claire."
His voice is exactly the same. Controlled, low, familiar in a way that registers without reaching me anymore.
I turn, letting a courteous smile come easily, naturally.
"Julian."
He looks different.
Not undone, not disheveled, nothing that obvious. But there's something in the way he holds himself, a tension threaded through his posture that doesn't quite belong there, like he's carrying something he hasn't figured out how to set down yet.
"I didn't expect to see you here," he says.
"That's funny," I reply lightly, tilting my head just slightly. "This is my regularly scheduled caffeine acquisition."
Something flickers across his face, almost a smile, but it disappears as quickly as it came.
"Let me get that," he says, nodding toward the counter.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
There's a beat, a small pause where I consider it, weighing nothing more than politeness against effort.
"Okay," I say easily, stepping forward again. I smile at the barista. "In that case—can I actually add another coffee and a croissant?"
It's light. Casual. Like it's nothing.
Like I'm not testing anything at all.
His expression shifts just slightly, not surprise exactly, but recalibration.
The barista hides a smile behind her hand before she chirps, "Of course!"
"Thank you," I reply, just as easy.
He steps up to the counter, placing his order without looking at me, and I move back to the side again, tucking my hands into the sleeves of my sweatshirt. My gaze drifts, unfocused, like this is just another normal morning and not something quietly deliberate unfolding underneath it.
A few minutes later, my name is called.
He gets there first.
Of course he does.
This time, he returns with our drinks in a carrier that is balanced carefully in one hand, the croissant tucked into a small paper bag in the other.
He sets them down in front of me with the same precise, controlled movements.
"Thank you," I say.
I slide one of the coffees toward myself, taking a sip, letting the warmth settle through me before setting it down. Then I fold open the paper bag, breaking off a small piece of the croissant more out of habit than hunger.
It's buttery and the perfect treat for a chilly morning. Perfect.
"Come sit," he says.
It isn't quite a command, but it isn't a request either. Just intent. Steady. Certain.
I hesitate for half a second, then nod.
"Okay."
We move to a small table near the window, sunlight spilling softly across the surface, and I settle into the chair, crossing one leg over the other as I wrap my hands around my cup.
Professional. Composed. Distant.
He sits across from me, leaning forward slightly, his gaze fixed in a way that feels deliberate, like he's studying, measuring, trying to understand something he's already behind on.
"I made a mistake," he says.
No buildup. No careful lead in. Just the truth, dropped plainly between us.
I nod once.
"Yes."
It throws him. I can see it in the slight shift of his expression, the fracture in whatever expectation he had built before sitting down.
"I was wrong," he continues, his voice tighter now. "About what I said. About how I—"
"I know," I say gently.
"You do?" He sits up a little straighter, hope starting to brew in his tone.
"You've told me," I say, raising my eyebrow.
The words settle, and he studies me longer this time, his gaze searching, like he's trying to find something in me that isn't there anymore.
"I want to choose you," he says.
There it is.
Clear. Intentional. Offered.
And too late.
I take another sip of my coffee, setting it down carefully before I look at him, really look at him.
Calm. Steady. Unmoved.
"I chose you before," I say.
His expression stills completely at my tone of voice.
"I won't do it again."
The words are soft, but they land with weight, with finality, with something that doesn't need to be raised to be heard.
I see it in the subtle shift of his shoulders, in the slight tightening of his jaw.
"You can choose me," I continue, my voice even, unwavering, "but just like the conclusion I came to—"
I take a breath.
"It means nothing when two people do not choose each other."
Silence follows, not empty but full, pressing into the space between us.
"And I don't choose you anymore. Do you understand?" I try to say the last words gently, but they come out hard and cold.
There is no hesitation in it. No softness to cushion the truth.
Just clarity.
Just me being done.
I don't wait for his response. I don't need one. I stand, picking up my coffee.
"Thank you for the drink," I add, polite as ever.
And then I turn, stepping away from the table, from him, from everything that used to feel like it mattered.
"Claire."
My name follows me, and I pause.
Not because I have to. Because I choose to.
I turn back, meeting his gaze, and for the first time I look at him without any of it. Without any of the history, the possibility, the almost.
He's just a person.
And then it happens.
It starts deep in my chest.
A sharp, violent pull, like something invisible has been yanked tight between us without warning, without permission. My breath catches hard, my fingers tightening instinctively around the coffee cup as heat floods through me. The feeling is sudden, overwhelming, spreading too fast to track.
It rushes through my ribs, my spine, my bloodstream, filling every space all at once.
Not soft.
Not curious.
Not almost.
Certain.
Undeniable.
My knees weaken, my lungs scrambling for air that doesn't feel like enough.
"Oh—"
Across from me, Julian goes completely still.
Whatever control he had fractures instantly, his expression breaking open in a way I have never seen before. His hand lifts to his chest, fingers pressing there like he's trying to contain something that refuses to be contained.
Our eyes lock.
And this time, there is no distance. No buffer. No separation left to hide behind.
I feel him.
Clear. Immediate. Sharp.
His confusion.
His realization.
His—
me.
And through it, he feels me just as clearly. Every layer. Every truth. And the first thing that reaches him is rejection.
Not hesitant. Not softened. Final.
No.
My chest tightens further, the bond pulsing between us like something alive, something insistent, something that thinks it has the right to exist.
And I hate it.
My breath comes fast, uneven, my hand pressing against my chest as if I can push it away, force it back, undo it.
"No," I whisper, the word trembling but intact.
Julian takes a step toward me.
"Claire—"
"Don't." My hand flies up in a physical bid to keep him away from me.
My voice is sharper, stronger, cutting clean through whatever he was about to say.
I step back, and the bond stretches with me, pulling tight, resisting the distance like it refuses to let me go. I feel it trying to settle, to root itself, to claim something that is no longer available to it.
And I refuse.
"I already chose you," I say, my voice shaking now with incredulousness but no less certain. "You don't get me like this."
His expression shifts again, something raw and unguarded breaking through the remains of his control. Through the bond I feel devastation. It's not mine.
"This isn't—"
"I don't care," I cut in, my chest rising and falling too fast, the connection between us humming, relentless and impossible to ignore.
"I don't want this," I say.
And he feels it.
Every ounce of it.
It hits him like a blow, and I see it in the way his posture falters, just slightly, just enough.
Good.
Because now he understands.
This isn't relief. This isn't romantic. This isn't what I wanted.
I take another step back, widening the space between us, even as the bond refuses to loosen, refuses to weaken, holding steady and constant in a way that feels wrong.
"I meant what I said," I tell him, quieter now, steadier again. "I don't choose you."
And this time, there is nothing uncertain left in it. No almost or maybe.
Just truth.
I turn, and I walk away.
The bond follows.
Of course it does. It's an unwanted, uninvited, permanent guest in my chest.
And for the first time in my life fate feels like a mistake.