Chapter 3
Ella
The next day, the bakery door nudges open, and in walks my favorite awkward regular.
Seventeen, maybe eighteen, tall enough to play basketball but carrying himself like he wants to vanish into the floorboards.
He shuffles to the counter, orders his usual chocolate chip muffin and hot chocolate, and then, like clockwork…
sneaks a glance toward the corner table.
And there she is—the girl. Pretty, brunette, head bent over her homework, earbuds in. I’ve noticed it a dozen times before, how he looks at her like she’s the moon and he’s just some kid stuck on Earth.
I slide his muffin across the counter. “So,” I say, leaning in just enough to make him squirm. “You gonna say hi this time?”
His eyes widen like I’ve just suggested he rob a bank. “No. No way. I wouldn’t even know what to say.”
“You could try… I don’t know, ‘hi.’ Works for most people.”
Color rises in his cheeks. “She’d never… I mean…look at her.”
I tilt my head. “Yeah, I did. And honestly? I think you’ll do just fine.”
He gives me a panicked half-smile, mumbles “Thanks,” and bolts out the door, leaving his hot chocolate steaming on the counter.
I shake my head, smiling to myself. Poor kid. I get it. Liking someone from a distance is easy. Actually, stepping toward them? That’s the terrifying part.
Work ran late after the evening rush, rare, but with just me and Ashton, chaos was inevitable.
Now I’m dragging my aching feet through the grocery store, dreaming of collapsing on my couch with a giant bowl of carbs and The Great British Bake Off.
It would be nice to have someone on that couch with me, someone who asks me about my day and wants to end it with ice cream or wine or both, but I’ve concluded that it’s not in the cards for me.
Everyone has a thing, and I think mine might be that I’m just cursed to be single. It’s not that I’m not trying; it just seems the harder I try, the harder it gets, and you can only get your heart broken or traumatized so many times before you feel like hanging up the towel and moving on.
I was totally one hundred percent okay with my bakery being my mistress a month ago—and then he appeared.
Apartment 6B. Nathan Reign, the quiet, sweet, yet awkward, silent man with his gorgeous jawline and intoxicating scent. And bang! I suddenly want to try one more time. It’s like the universe went, “Hey, look, maybe we saved the best for last,” and then it laughed at me and said, “Just kidding!”
I should never have told Ashton about him, but in a moment of weakness, I broke.
She’s the kind of person who believes—really believes—that there’s someone out there for everyone.
Not in a fairytale way. In a stubborn, almost defiant way.
Like the universe owes you at least one person who feels like home.
She made me swear I wouldn’t give up on that idea. On finding the one. And apparently, when I’m tired and caught off guard in elevators, I’m still just hopeful enough to listen.
As I wander the fruit aisle, couples pass me hand in hand, smiling, brushing arms, whispering and wow, using actual words in complete sentences with another human who’s actually interested in what you have to say. It’s like a Christmas miracle, or the first snow of the season.
I sigh and pull out my phone to text Ashton. She’s right. I can’t give up. And who’s to say I can’t find a normal person to have a healthy relationship with?
My last breakup was the cheating husband guy—that one nearly sent me to therapy, so maybe I just casually fish in the very tiny pool that is dating in Seattle.
I startle when my phone buzzes.
Ashton: Okay. Don’t panic. But I did a thing.
I stop in the produce aisle, a bag of apples halfway into my cart.
Me: Define thing.
Ashton: I made you a dating profile.
I slowly remove the apples.
Me: You did what.
Ashton: Relax. It’s just a profile. You’re not married to it. Yet.
Me: Take it down.
Ashton: Already too late.
Me: Ashton.
Ashton: I even picked your pictures.
My phone buzzes. I look down.
It’s… not great.
It’s the one from two years ago where I’m mid-laugh, hair doing something aggressive, eyes half-closed like I’m being exorcised.
Me: Why do I look like I’m being haunted?
Ashton: You look fun.
Me: I look unstable.
Ashton: Men love a little mystery.
Me: Take it down.
Ashton: No. If you hate it, send me better ones.
Me: I don’t want better ones.
Ashton: Then you’re stuck with that one.
I start walking again, abandoning the apples and heading for the chip aisle.
Me: I am not going on blind dates. I am not swiping. I am not emotionally available for strangers named Brad who list “crypto” as a personality trait.
Ashton: You don’t know that. Brad could be the one.
Me: If the one is named Brad, I’m changing my name and moving.
Ashton: Pictures, Ella. Send me pictures.
Me: No.
Ashton: I’m not asking.
Me: I’m in the snack aisle.
Ashton: Even better. Send me one right now.
Me: Absolutely not.
Ashton: Fine. Then enjoy being represented online by Possessed Two-Years-Ago You.
Me: You’re evil.
Ashton: Productive.
Me: I’ll send you something later.
Ashton: You have until tonight.
Me: Say hi to my pets.
Ashton: I will. Tell them they’re the reason you’re still single.
Me: Low blow.
Ashton: Someone should be blowing something. Just saying
I choke on a laugh, shove my phone in my back pocket, and keep moving.
Still smiling to myself, I turn into the next aisle—and that’s when the feeling hits.
That quiet, crawling awareness.
Like someone’s attention is on me.
I slow near a display of pasta sauces and pretend to read labels I’ve bought a hundred times.
Then I glance over my shoulder.
A man in a fisherman’s hat stands halfway down the aisle.
My stomach gives a small, strange dip.
I’ve seen him before.
At the bakery.
In the corner booth by the window. The one who didn’t order anything. The one who kept looking at the rain.
He isn’t looking at me now.
He’s studying a shelf. Or pretending to.
I tell myself it’s a coincidence. Seattle isn’t that big. People go places.
I grab a jar I don’t need and move on.
Two aisles later, I spot him again. Near the endcap of chips. Same hat. Same jacket.
Still not looking directly at me.
Okay. That’s… weird.
I head toward produce.
He’s there too.
Not close. Not far. Just… present.
A few steps behind. Or ahead. Or somehow always on the same path.
My pulse picks up.
“Get a grip,” I mutter under my breath. “You’re not the main character in a thriller.”
I make a sharp turn into the baking aisle.
Almost collide with another shopper.
“Sorry!” I say quickly.
The guy mumbles something and keeps going.
When I turn back— he’s gone… Thank God.
Shrugging it off, I head to self-checkout and start scanning. By the time I get to the bottle of rosé, I'm yawning behind my hand. A nice young man—oh God, I said young man like I’m ninety—comes running over to check my ID.
Name tag: Chad. He flashes a grin, swipes his card, and overrides the ID check.
"Wait." I blink at him in expectation. "Don’t you need my ID?"
Chad licks his lips awkwardly. "I mean...you can show me if you want."
Excuse me?
I stare him down like I’m about to ruin his entire existence.
"No, no," he backpedals fast, waving his hands. "I just meant — you clearly look over twenty-one."
Clearly.
Like it’s written on my forehead in permanent marker.
"I’ll just finish up here," I mutter, dragging my dignity and my wine into a bag.
As I leave, Chad checks the ID of an actual grandma. And she flirts with him. Of course she does.
Perfect. I’ve officially hit the stage of life where senior citizens get carded, and I get called “Ma’am” before being waved through like expired produce.
Sighing, I sling my grocery bags over my arms and start the three-block walk home.
It's dark. Too dark. I think back on every single conversation Ashton has had with me about the crime podcasts she listens to.
At the crosswalk, someone steps up behind me. My pulse jumps— until I glance back…and see it’s a police officer.
"Ma’am, everything alright?" he asks kindly.
"Sorry," I breathe. "Long night."
“Same for me.” He’s attractive, capable, and strong. He instantly puts me at ease. “Do you need me to walk—”
His radio suddenly goes off. “10-61.” The voice cracks on the other end. “Copy Officer Hernandez for 10-61.”
“Copy for Hernandez.”
I fade out the rest of his conversation.
He talks some more, then looks over at me. “I have to go. Stay safe, ma’am.”
I wait for the walk sign, then cross quickly, spotting the glow of my building ahead.
Almost there. Except...
It’s him… the man in the fisherman’s hat is pacing outside the front entrance.
Back and forth.
Not going in.
Not leaving. I feel the hairs rise on the back of my neck. I cross the street faster, heart pounding. Don't make eye contact. Don't look. Just get inside.
I push through the lobby doors and exhale — only to hear footsteps behind me.
He followed me in.
A sick feeling settles deep in my gut. He could live here. Or be visiting. Maybe.
But he’s too close. Way too close.
I speed-walk to the elevators, jabbing the button like my life depends on it.
When the doors open, I dive inside and hit a random button — anything.
Six.
Good.
Neutral.
The doors almost close, almost, and then a wrinkled hand wedges between them.
The man steps inside. He doesn’t hit a floor button. Just stabs the close button.
My hands go clammy.
He shifts closer.
I shrink into the corner of the elevator, forcing my breathing to stay even.
Didn’t Ashton say there was some stalker lingering around Belltown?
I’m not normally this jumpy, but I swear the closer she gets to graduating, the more cases she brings up and the more I think I need to roll myself in bubble wrap.
Another hand slams into the doors just before they close again. A second figure steps in.
It’s Nathan.
I nearly sag with relief.
He says nothing, just steps in front of me, body stiff, and casually presses the fourth-floor button — my floor — as if it’s no big deal.
My heart stutters.
Does he know?
Is he helping?
I sneak a glance at him, desperate for some sign.
He doesn’t meet my eyes. Just stands between the man and me, his shoulders tense.
The man in the corner moves closer. Too close.
Nathan glances at me. Tilts his head. Studies me carefully. Then he taps the four button again, slow and deliberate.
I don’t know if it’s meant to calm me or warn me — but it works.
When the elevator finally jerks to a stop at my floor, I don’t hesitate. I dart out into the hallway, nearly tripping over my own feet.
Just as the doors close behind me, I catch a glimpse of Nathan moving toward the man.
The last thing I hear before the elevator doors completely shut is a loud bang echoing through the shaft.
My heart pounds against my ribs. I don’t wait to find out.
I sprint to my apartment, fumbling with my keys, nearly dropping my groceries.
When I finally get the door open, I slam it shut behind me and collapse against it, gasping.
Dr. Doom meows grumpily from the kitchen.
"Yeah, yeah," I whisper, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. "I'm fine."
I wasn’t being paranoid.
I wasn’t crazy.
As I drift into sleep that night, one thought anchors me:
6B didn’t just save me.
He chose to.