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Dylan

The diner’s neon sign buzzes faintly outside, casting a pinkish glow through the window where I sit, picking at the last crumbs of my bagel.

I can’t help but smile just a little bit. The bagel is good. Like seriously good.

I’ve got a real sweet tooth, but there are times when only savoury will do, and this is most definitely one of them.

It’s late —way later than I usually stay out these days—but there’s something about being back in Willow Creek that makes me want to stretch time, to soak in the quiet hum of a town that never changes.

The city was all sharp edges and noise, a relentless machine that chewed me up and spat me out.

I spent four years in the big bad city, chasing stories as a news reporter, running from one deadline to the next, my byline stamped on articles I barely cared about.

And that’s even before getting into the fact that I felt like I was always overlooked for promotions due to a boss who was pretty much the pits—and made no secret of his favorites either. Sadly, I was very much not one of those favorites.

I hated every second of city life—the concrete canyons, the way people moved too fast to notice you, the constant pressure to be someone I wasn’t.

And the so called Daddies I met… pfft .

It’s not like my entire life revolves around finding a Daddy, but I had hoped that in a city of millions there would at least be a handful of Daddies to choose from who would fit my needs.

Sadly, that wasn’t the case. Far from it…

All I met was money and status obsessed jerks who cared more about what they looked like with me on their arm then anything that actually mattered.

And they’d all act so tough, like being a Daddy was automatically some kind of free pass to being rude and aloof.

Yeah, it sucked .

Coming home was like taking a deep breath after holding it too long, a return to roots I didn’t realize I’d missed until I felt them under my feet again.

And here I am…

Chris sits across from me, his blonde hair shimmering as he sips his coffee, black as the night outside. Chris has been my anchor since I got back three months ago, the one person who didn’t bat an eye when I said I was ditching the city to write a novel.

I still can’t believe I pulled it off—landing a publishing contract before I even packed my bags. Don’t get too excited. I’m not about to become a millionaire author overnight. It’s a small press who pay small advances. Sure, nothing flashy, but it’s mine…

My first novel.

As I say, the advance isn’t huge, just enough to cover rent and groceries while I figure out how to turn my jumbled ideas into a story worth reading.

But the words are slow with a capital S.

I’ve got a notebook full of half-formed sentences and a deadline looming six months from now, and most days, the blank page stares back at me like it’s daring me to fail.

“Earth to Dylan,” Chris says, snapping his fingers in front of my face. “You’re zoning out again. What’s up? Writer’s block or man trouble?”

I laugh, a little too loud, and it bounces off the diner’s chipped tables.

“Man trouble? Please. I’d need a man for that. This town’s got nothing but the same old faces—Tommy Grayson still lurking at the gas station, probably, thinking he’s God’s gift. I’m not desperate enough to date him again. He still thinks Axe body spray is a personality trait.”

Chris snorts, nearly choking on his coffee.

“Oh God, remember when he asked you for a date with that boombox outside your window?” Chris laughs. “Like he thought he was John Cusack or something. I swear, I can still hear In Your Eyes echoing down Maple Street.”

“Worst night of my life,” I say, grinning despite myself. “No, I’m just… I don’t know. Settling back in, I guess. It’s good to be home—the quiet, the trees, the way you can hear yourself think. But it’s weird too. Like I’m waiting for something to happen, some spark to shake me out of this rut.”

He tilts his head, studying me with those sharp blue eyes that miss nothing. “You’ve got that look. Like you’re about to stumble into some big story again. Or maybe a big guy. Dare I say… a Daddy? You’ve been back what, three months? And nothing? Not even a fling?”

“Yeah, right,” I mutter, brushing sesame seeds off my fingers onto the napkin crumpled beside my plate.

“Don’t even mention the D-word. The only action I’m getting is between the pages of my notebook, and even that’s stalled out.

I thought coming home would fix everything—give me space to breathe, to write.

But the men here? Same old, same old. I’m not holding my breath for Prince Charming to roll into Willow Creek on a white horse. ”

“Maybe a black motorcycle instead,” Chris teases, waggling his eyebrows. “You need some inspiration, Dylan. A muse . Someone to get those creative juices flowing.”

I roll my eyes, but before I can shoot back a retort, the bell above the diner door jingles, cutting through our laughter.

I don’t look up at first—just another late-night straggler, probably old man Jenkins grabbing his usual pie to-go, grumbling about the weather.

But then Chris’s eyes widen, and he lets out a low whistle under his breath…

“Holy hell, Dylan,” Chris gasps. “Don’t look now, but your ‘something to happen’ just walked in.”

I scoff, figuring he’s exaggerating, but curiosity gets the better of me. I glance over my shoulder, casual as I can manage, and then my heart stops dead in my chest, like someone hit pause on the whole damn world.

He’s tall, broader than I remember, with shoulders that fill out the leather jacket hugging his frame.

Dark hair, a little messy, falls into his eyes as he scans the room, and there’s a shadow of stubble along his jaw that makes him look rougher, harder than he used to.

This is the kind of guy who looks like he could break something—or someone—without blinking. He’s got that biker vibe down pat: black boots scuffed from the road, jeans worn in all the right places, and a presence that sucks the air out of the diner like he owns it. But it’s not just that.

It’s him.

Clay Damon.

My Clay.

Or he was, once. Seven years ago, when I was nineteen and he was twenty-one, we were everything .

A whole year of stolen kisses behind the old mill, late-night rides on his bike with my arms wrapped tight around his waist, promises whispered under the stars while the crickets sang.

Clay was my first love, the kind that burns so bright you think it’ll never go out. Until it did. Until he got hauled off in cuffs, and I was left with a broken heart and a town full of whispers.

Prison…

Three years, they said, for something I never fully understood—something about a fight, a guy who didn’t walk away. I didn’t stick around to find out the details.

I couldn’t.

It hurt too much.

I packed up my dreams and ran to the city, thinking distance would erase him. It didn’t.

“Dylan,” Chris hisses, kicking me under the table. “You’re staring. Close your mouth.”

I snap my jaw shut, but I can’t tear my eyes away.

He’s moving toward the counter now, his stride easy but deliberate, like he’s got nowhere to be but knows exactly where he’s going. The waitress—Jenny, a real sweetheart—blushes as she takes his order, fumbling with the coffee pot, and I don’t blame her.

Clay has always had that effect.

Even back then, he could make you feel like you were the only person in the room with just a look. It’s still there, that magnetism, but it’s sharper now, edged with something dark I can’t place.

And then it happens. His head turns, just a fraction, and his eyes lock on mine.

Green, sharp, piercing—like they could cut right through me.

For a second, I think I imagined it, that he’ll look away and keep moving.

But he doesn’t. He holds my gaze, and the diner fades—the hum of the jukebox playing some old country tune, Chris’s whispered “oh shit,” the clatter of dishes in the back.

It’s just him and me, and seven years collapse into nothing.

My pulse slams in my throat. I don’t know what to do with my hands, my face, my whole damn body.

Run? Hide? Pretend I don’t see him?

But I can’t move. I’m pinned there, caught in the weight of his stare, and all the old feelings come rushing back—love, anger, hurt, longing—tangled up in a knot I’ve spent years trying to unravel.

I thought I was over him. I told myself I was. But one look, and I’m nineteen again, standing in the rain outside his trailer, begging him to explain why he’d thrown it all away.

“Dylan?” Chris’s voice is softer now, worried. “You okay? Who is that guy?”

I swallow hard, forcing the words out past the lump in my throat. “Clay. Clay Damon.”

His eyes go wide again, because of course he knows the name. Chris was there when it all fell apart, when I cried myself sick for weeks after he was gone, when I swore I’d never let anyone in like that again. “Wait. The Clay? Holy crap, Dylan, he’s?—”

“Back,” I finish for him, my voice barely above a whisper. “He’s back .”

He’s still looking at me, and now he’s turning—away from the counter, toward our booth. My stomach flips, and I grip the edge of the table like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.

Is he coming over here?

What the hell am I supposed to say? “Hey, long time no see, sorry you broke my heart and disappeared”? Or maybe, “Nice jacket, still got that bad boy thing going, huh?”

My brain’s a mess, scrambling for something, anything, that doesn’t sound pathetic or desperate or like I’ve been waiting for this moment since the day he left.

But then Jenny calls out his order—coffee, black, to-go—and he breaks eye contact, turning back to her. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, relief and disappointment crashing together in a wave that leaves me dizzy.

He’s not coming over.

Not yet .

Clay grabs the cup, tosses a few bills on the counter with a nod, and heads for the door. One last glance my way—quick, almost like he didn’t mean to—and then he’s gone, the bell jingling behind him as the night swallows him up.

“Dylan,” Chris says, leaning across the table, his voice low and urgent. “What the hell was that? You looked like you were about to pass out. Or throw up. Or both.”

“I don’t know,” I admit, my hands shaking as I reach for my coffee. It’s cold now, bitter on my tongue, but I sip it anyway, just to have something to do. “I didn’t expect… I mean, I didn’t think he’d be here. Not after everything. I thought he’d stay gone.”

“Is he out for good?” Chris asks, his brows knitting together. “Like, out-out? No parole, no strings?”

“I guess so.” I stare at the spot where he stood, the ghost of him still lingering in the air. “I didn’t keep up with it. Didn’t want to. After he went away, I just… I had to move on. Or try to.”

Chris nods, chewing his lip like he’s piecing it together. “Well, he’s hot as hell, I’ll give him that. Prison didn’t hurt him in that regard. If anything, he looks better—rougher, you know? Like he’s been through some shit and came out the other side.”

“Chris,” I groan, burying my face in my hands.

But he’s not wrong. He’s different—harder, maybe, with lines on his face that weren’t there before—but still Clay.

Still the guy who used to make my heart race with a single smile, who’d pull me close on his bike and tell me we’d ride out of this town together someday.

If Clay was a Daddy before, then he’s giving even more Daddy vibes now - way more, in fact.

“What are you gonna do?” Chris presses, his voice cutting through my haze. “If he’s back, you’re gonna run into him again. Willow Creek’s too small to avoid it. You can’t hide in your house forever.”

“I don’t know,” I say again, and it’s the truth. I don’t know if I want to run toward him or away from him. I don’t know if I can handle the past crashing into my present like this, stirring up all the dust I’ve tried to sweep under the rug.

All I know is that seeing Clay again woke something up inside me—something raw and restless I thought I’d buried deep.

The diner’s quiet now, just the soft hum of the fridge and the tick of the clock on the wall.

I glance at it—almost midnight.

It’s nearly time to go home. I might still get some work done on my novel, do some edits, tidy my place up a bit… who am I kidding?

With Clay on my mind, there’s only one thing I’ll be doing when I do leave and go home…