Page 108 of For the Plot

Bluebird Coffee is already half-fullwhen I walk in at 9:57. It’s a sleepy Thursday morning in Wicker Park. The baristasmove in a rhythm that feels both unbothered and expertly choreographed, grinding, pouring, calling names over the hiss of steam.

I take the small table by the window.

It’s the same one Maya and I used to sit at when we were nineteen and hungover, splitting a bagel and pretending we were grown-ups. I almost don’t realize it until I sit down. But maybe that’s why I chose it.

I smooth the hem of my wrap dress over my thighs, ignoring the tremor in my knee. I sip my latte and glance up at the clock—10:01. I tell myself he’s not coming. That I’ll drink this coffee, call Maya, and go about my life.

Maybe I’ll sign up for a pottery class. Maybe I’ll take a trip somewhere warm. Maybe I’ll learn how to shut off the part of me that’s still in love with a man who let me walk away.

But then I feel it. That shift. The air changes. My skin prickles. I don’t even have to look up to know he’s here. But I do anyway.

Reece steps inside like he owns the ground beneath him. Like he always does. But he’s not in a suit. Not today. He wears dark jeans and a slate button-down, his jacket tossed over one shoulder. He doesn’t scan the café. Doesn’t hesitate.

His eyes go straight to me. Like a man who would have found me in a crowd of a thousand. He walks over slowly. Carefully. When he reaches the table, he doesn’t sit. Just stands there for a moment, taking me in.

“You came,” I say, voice quieter than I intend.

His mouth lifts into something that’s not quite a smile. “You asked.”

I gesture to the chair across from me. “Sit.”

He does. We stare at each other for a beat. And then I say it.

“I’m not going to fall apart.” His brow furrows slightly. “I’m not going to cry,” I add. “Or yell. Or demand answers you already gave me.”

Reece nods slowly. “Okay.”

“But I need you to understand something,” I continue, wrapping both hands around my cup. “This doesn’t mean I’m letting you back in.”

He leans forward slightly, eyes locked on mine. “What does it mean?”

“It means I’m listening.”

A flicker of hope flashes across his face. It hurts to see it. Because I want to grab it. Wrap myself in it. But I don’t. I set my coffee down and take a breath.

“If you want me,” I say, voice steady, “you’ll have to date me.”

His eyes narrow, confused. “Skye?—”

“No secrets. No hiding. No excuses about Archer or the company or what people might think. I’m not going to be your dirty little secret again.”

His jaw clenches. “You were never that.”

“But that’s how it ended, didn’t it?”

He doesn’t answer.

“I want to be wooed,” I say, lifting my chin. “Not bought. Not seduced. Wooed. Take me out. Call me just to hear my voice. Send me flowers that aren’t a sorry. Show up because you want to, not because you’re afraid I’m slipping away.”

His throat bobs.

“I want to be chosen, Reece. Loudly. Without shame. Without fear.”

A beat of silence passes between us. He nods once. “Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”