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A sense of possessiveness has taken root in all of us. None of us will rest until this omega is safe with us.

five

. . .

Mia

“Mia, what’s going on over there?! You still have two tables to bus, and we have a packed house,” my manager, Alice, calls out.

I look up from the table I’ve been vacantly wiping down for the last ten minutes. My thoughts have sucked me under, and I’m drowning in anxiety.

After what happened the other night, it became clear to me that I need to end things with Justin, regardless of what he says or does now. He’s trying to pretend he never hit me, as if I somehow never believed he would actually do it.

Now, I see him for who he really is. My face still hurts, and the bruise looks like it’ll never fade. I had to put on a lot of makeup this morning.

But makeup can only cover up so much, and my manager asked about it this morning, pity evident on her face. Even when I brushed it off as an accidental injury, I heard my coworkers whispering about it in the break room.

It’s exhausting being the topic of gossip for the week.

Standing up from the table, I toss the rag into the bin andcarry it toward the counter. On the way to the counter, I see him.

He was here the other day with a friend, but this time he’s alone.

The man is wiry and muscular, with a quiet strength in how he holds himself. His long black hair is carefully mussed, hanging over one eye. His sharp, striking features catch me off guard. He’s attractive in an almost unattainable way.

Probably a wealthy businessman on vacation. I suddenly realize he’s sitting at a table in my section.

I make my way over to him, a feeling of anticipation shivering up my spine. As I draw closer, the customer looks up from his paperback, curiosity in his eyes. Something about his gaze catches me off guard.

His eyes seem to glimmer, and the gold specks in the green seem to dance before shifting to silver.

But that’s ridiculous. It’s just the lack of sleep playing tricks on my mind.

“Hello, sir. What can I get for you?” I ask uncertainly.

The corner of his mouth twitches up into a semblance of a smile.

“Just a cup of black coffee. No sugar. And…” He traces his finger along the menu. “A piece of lemon cake.”

I quickly jot down the order, but hesitate before walking away. There’s something about his presence that keeps me momentarily rooted to the spot, and every nerve in my body seems to come alive.

“Name?”

“Finn. Thank you,” he replies, his smile widening slightly. Again, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something strange about his eyes. “Is something wrong, Mia?”

I smile nervously. “Sorry, I’ll go put in your order. It should be out shortly.”

As I walk away, I can feel his eyes on my back, watching me leave. It’s unnerving, yet oddly familiar.

At that moment, a customer turns directly into my path.

I try to slow my steps, but it’s too late. We collide, and his iced coffee splashes down my sweater, dripping onto the floor. The sound of the mug hitting the ground and shattering makes me wince.

Richard Ellicot is a professor at the college next to the café and is well known for his ill temper. His gaze shifts from his fallen drink to my already flushed face, and his expression darkens.

“You should watch where you’re going,” he snaps. “I hope you know that I am not paying for my replacement drink, and I expect to be refunded for this one. The absolute inadequacy.”

I shrink under his complaints and shouts. Tears spring to my eyes, and I try to fight them back. “I’m sorry. I’ll get this cleaned up, and my manager will make you another drink.”