Page 5 of Push My Buttons

Then another buzz.

[You hide well. But I see you. I always have. I will always find you.]

I don’t scream.

I don’t run.

I just slide the phone into my drawer, turn off the rest of the lights and triple check all my locks. Then, I grab my other laptop and sit on the bed with my back to the wall as I search for yet another apartment.

Because I know something no one else does.

You can hide your face.

You can keep disappearing.

But some things?

Some things always bleed through the cracks.

Chapter 2

Wren

Thecaféalwayssmellslike burnt beans and regret—like someone tried to bottle corporate despair and brew it through a French press.

I walk in ten minutes late—again—and pretend not to see Marcus’s glare from behind the pastry case. He’s our shift manager, part-time barista, full-time buzzkill. If you poured lukewarm oat milk into human form and added a superiority complex with just a dash of petty tyrant, you'd get Marcus.

He doesn’t say anything—not because he’s above it, but because he’s already given up trying to make me care. I flash him a dry smile and tug my apron over my head.

I don’t work the register. I’m behind the machines, on drinks and prep. Quiet work. Efficient. No need to speak.

Maya’s on the register today. Bright-eyed, messy bun, unapologetically chipper. She learned sign language for me within a week of meeting me, said she always wanted to anyway, and now uses it fluently with the same ease she takes a triple shot caramel macchiato order.

We've worked together here for nearly eighteen months now, since I landed on this side of the country with a backpack, a burner phone, and freshly dyed Hello Kitty-pink hair. I'd picked this place deliberately—out of the way, no chain branding, and the kind of clientele too absorbed in their own reflections to notice the girl behind the machine. After everything fell apart, anonymity wasn’t just a preference. It was the whole damn plan.

Maya was the first person I met who didn’t ask too many questions. She saw through the silence and filled it with kindness. She's the kind of friend who doesn’t just show up—she stays, even when you push her away. And when she noticed I signed my coffee orders to myself while memorizing the layout of the café, she decided I wasn't allowed to be the mysterious loner anymore. She learned to sign, texting me memes, and even saved me from more than one socially awkward disaster.

She also has zero chill when it comes to guys, gossip, or caffeine.

“Rough night?”she signs quickly with a flick of her fingers, not even missing a beat as she punches in an order with the other hand.

I nod once. Nothing else needed.

The line is already snaking out the door, mostly tech bros in startup hoodies and ironic sneakers, juggling three devices and the fragile egos of middle-management. One hand on their phone, the other wrapped around a $1,200 laptop like it's a therapy dog with Wi-Fi. I grab the first order and get to work.

Somewhere between a double espresso with seven pumps of hazelnut and an iced matcha with oat milk and a side of daddy issues, Maya glances at me and subtly points with her chin.

I look up and see him.

Hoodie. Deep sexy voice. Brooding aura. Jace.

He’s one of our regulars, though he always acts like he hates that fact. Never lingers. Never makes eye contact for longer thantwo seconds. Just stalks in like a thundercloud, orders the same thing—black coffee, no sugar, no cream and a ginger scone—and then broods his way out like someone just spit in his existential dread.

He’s already at the pastry case, looking down like it insulted him.

"Ginger ones are already gone," Maya tells him.

He grunts. Actual, literal grunt. She shrugs and gives him the total. The whole transaction is over in less than thirty seconds, but I still find myself watching him longer than necessary.