Page 58 of Hide From Me (Chaotic Love #3)

Twenty-Nine

Raylen

Fae's Diner

The diner is slow this morning. It’s quiet in a way that should feel peaceful, but instead, it feels haunted—like even the ghosts are tired of watching me pretend to be okay.

The early rush has come and gone. Now, there’s just the hum of the fridge, the soft clink of coffee cups, and Jack humming some off-key classic rock song that’s older than both of us combined.

I’ve wiped the same six feet of counter three times in ten minutes—not because it’s dirty, or because I have this deep-seated need to, when the panic is rising–but because the second I stop moving, I start thinking. And that’s more dangerous than any silence.

It’s been a month since he collapsed—bleeding, breathless, rambling about fathers, monsters, and choices as if the world were ending. Maybe it was. Maybe it still is. I haven’t decided yet.

All I know is that with each passing day, something inside me frays a little more. The pieces of my sanity slip away like threads unraveling from a sweater that was never stitched quite right to begin with.

Jack’s fingers slide an order slip across the counter without looking at me.

“Table four,” he says, as expected, then adds with a teasing grin, “Chocolate chip pancakes.”

I don’t reply. I don’t need to. We both know who it’s for.

Moe has been doing this every morning for the past week, ever since he got cleared to leave the med bay bed—same time, same booth, same order, and the same goddamn heartbreak.

He limps in like a slow-motion apology, dressed in black sweats and that worn hoodie I remember falling asleep against once. The first time, I didn’t even speak to him. I just set the plate down, like I was feeding a ghost, and walked away.

The second time he smiled—softly, cautiously—and said, “Hi. I’m Moe.

” It felt as if he didn’t realize he had disrupted my life just by existing.

It was as if he hadn’t cut me open with every secret he never trusted me enough to share.

That one simple sentence pulled me under and left me drowning all over again.

Now it has become a routine, a silent performance we both agreed to without ever articulating the terms. He shows up, and I pretend not to care. Yet my heart stumbles—violently and traitorously—every time he slips through that door.

I pick up the plate from the kitchen window.

It’s warm in my hands—too warm, as if it knows how much I’m about to regret this.

I walk toward the booth slowly, watching him already seated there, the sling tight around his shoulder, and the knee brace peeking out from beneath his sweats.

He sits upright despite the obvious discomfort, his hands folded neatly on the table like a student waiting to be called on.

His hoodie sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, revealing bruised forearms and the faint trace of an IV scar just above his wrist. He looks at me as if this is all perfectly normal, as though we aren’t a wreckage pretending to be whole.

I set the plate down a bit harder than necessary, causing syrup to slosh over the rim.

“You know,” I mutter, trying to conceal the edge in my voice, “at some point, you’re going to have to try something else on the menu.”

He looks up at me with that irritating, sunshine grin—the one that always slips past my defenses, no matter how much armor I put on. “Hi. I’m Moe.”

I cross my arms. “You’ve said that every day for the past seven days.”

“Still true,” he replies easily, his eyes never leaving mine. “Still me.”

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? It’s still him.

Still the man I gave too much of myself to. Still the one who made me feel safe, vulnerable, and alive... and the same one who made me question if I ever really knew him at all.

I know I should walk away. I should turn on my heel and disappear behind the counter again. But I don’t.

I just stand there, watching him cut into his pancakes as if he’s trying not to wince every time he moves his shoulder.

I observe how he chews slowly and carefully, glancing up at me as if waiting for a sign—some breadcrumb that says I haven’t completely locked the door on him.

It feels like I'm hovering over him, like a worried mother afraid that if their child eats too quickly, they might choke.

I want to say something cruel—something final that will create distance between us, a gap between me and where emotion keeps pulling me back. But my throat is tight, and my heart feels like a traitor. All I can do is ask, “How long are you going to keep doing this?”

He swallows his bite and wipes his fingers on the napkin, as if buying time. Then he meets my eyes again and replies, “As long as it takes.”

Fuck.

I hate him.

I hate how much I don’t.

“Why? What do you want from me, Moe?” The words burst out before I can stop them, raw and sharper than I intended.

My hands tremble at my sides, fingers curling into my apron as if I can hold myself together by gripping it tightly.

My heart is thudding so hard that I swear he can see it, feel it shaking the air between us.

Moe swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He unclenches his fingers from the fork, setting it down with a soft clink, like he’s surrendering a weapon all while his eyes never leave mine.

“A chance.”

The air feels too thin. I blink at him, trying to process the simplicity of his request, the weight of what he’s asking. A chance? After everything? After the bleeding truths and broken trust?

“A chance for what?” My voice is quieter now, but no less fierce. The words taste bitter in my mouth. “To lie again? To pretend none of it mattered? That you weren’t someone else the entire time we were together?”

I expect him to flinch, to look away, to shrink under the weight of it all. But he doesn’t.

“I never pretended,” he says. His voice is low and steady, but I can see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands curl into loose fists against the table as if he’s trying to hold himself in check.

“You lied about everything,” I snap. The fury is still there, but now it’s layered—hurt, confusion, longing, all tangled together. “Your job. Your world. Who you are.”

“I lied about my job,” he replies. His gaze remains unwavering, and there’s something in his tone that cuts through the storm in my head. “But not my past. Not my trauma. Not what I went through. Not who I am with you.”

His words hit me like a punch I didn’t see coming. I freeze, my breath caught halfway between inhaling and exhaling.

“And I never lied about loving you.”

The diner falls silent after that, so quiet it feels like the whole place is holding its breath. The plates clink in the back, and the soft whir of the ceiling fan fades. Jack’s humming slows into nothing. The world shrinks down to the space between us and the ache blooming in my chest.

“You should stop coming here,” I whisper. The words scrape out of me, brittle and small, feeling like a betrayal even as I say them.

He leans forward, just enough to bridge a sliver of the distance between us. “Do you want me to?”

My lips part, but no sound comes out. I don’t know how to answer him.

I should say yes. I should end this before I fall again, before I let him in far enough to break me for good.

But I can’t because the truth is—no. No, I don’t want him to stop.

When he said he loved me, in some twisted, infuriating way, I started loving myself again.

He made me feel seen. Wanted. But what if it all crumbles again?

What if I lose myself trying to hold on to him?

He’s still watching me, patient, as if he can see the battle playing out in my head.

“Are we really done, Sunshine?”

My mouth opens. I want to say yes. I want to give him something clean and final. But the word sticks in my throat, heavy and wrong. My heart squeezes so tight it hurts.

“I don’t know.”

And that damn smile— that soft, crooked, almost-sad smile— makes it impossible to hate him. “Then we’re not.”

I have to look away. If I don’t, I’m going to break apart right here at his table.

“Raylen,” he says, his voice gentler now, as if he knows how close I am to the edge. “You don’t have to decide today.”

My eyes sting. I blink hard, trying to clear them before he sees.

“I need space,” I whisper. It’s the only truth I can offer him right now.

He nods slowly, understanding even as it clearly hurts him. “Then I’ll give you space. I can’t promise it won’t drive me insane. And I’ll warn you—I’m prone to last-minute, impulsive decisions.” His grin flickers, weak but genuine. “But I’m not giving up, and I’ll keep starting over.”

“Why?” My voice cracks on the word. I need to hear it. I need to know why he’s still here, still trying, after everything.

He lifts his eyes, steady and filled with something that moves me deeply. “Because I found something worth fighting for and not hiding from.”

The weight of his words nearly buckles my knees. I stand there too long. Long enough that Jack clears his throat at the register, his not-so-subtle way of reminding me that I’m still at work, still in the middle of a diner, still pretending like my heart isn’t tearing itself apart .

I force myself to turn and walk away before he sees me cry. My vision blurs as I head behind the counter, but I catch sight of the order slip still sitting there, left by Jack.

Chocolate chip pancakes.

In the corner, small and almost hidden, is his familiar crooked scrawl:

Hi. I’m Moe. Still yours.

My fingers hover over the slip, brushing the edge as if it might burn me.

Goddammit.

I quickly fold it and shove it into the pocket of my apron before anyone can see how much my hands are shaking. That stupid sentence feels like a live wire, threatening to short-circuit me if I hold on to it for too long. I already replay his voice in my head the moment I turn my back on him.

“Hey, uh, Ray!” Goddamn it, Jack. It’s as if everyone has been tiptoeing around me, even though no one knows what’s going on… except Laura, but of course, I’m still mad at her too. My hand freezes on the kitchen door, and I barely turn my head to acknowledge Jack.

“It’s game night. I’m bringing booze, don’t worry.”

I try to force a laugh, but nothing comes out, so I quickly dart into the kitchen and rush into the back room. I don’t know what the hell I expected to do in here. Pretend I’m checking stock? Pretend I’m not about to come undone?

The moment the door swings shut behind me, I lean against the wall, fists clenched in the fabric of my apron, eyes closed. I’m breathing too fast. My lungs ache like I’ve run miles, but I haven’t moved more than ten steps from him.

He said, "Still yours," as if I hadn’t shattered him with every cold look. As if he hadn’t been bleeding at my feet and I let silence be my answer. As if he wasn’t still bleeding, limping into this diner every morning to order pancakes and pretend that we’d just met.

But I see the pain in his eyes, no matter how brightly he smiles. He hides it better than he used to, like he's afraid of scaring me again. And maybe that’s the worst part: that I did this to him. I made someone who has been through hell afraid to be himself in front of me .

I press the heels of my palms to my eyes. No tears. Not here. Not now.

He says he wants a chance, but chances come with risks, and I’m not sure if I have anything left to risk.

What if I fall in love with him all over again, only to lose him once more?

What if, next time, there’s no helicopter waiting, no team to bring him back from the edge?

What if he doesn’t make it home? What if I can’t handle it?

The slip of paper crinkles when I shift, and I pull it from my pocket again.

You big, stupid, delusional idiot.