Page 13 of The Vagabond

SAXON - TWO MONTHS AGO

I told myself it wasn’t stalking.

It was protection. A precaution. Penance.

But even I knew that was a goddamn lie.

You don’t sit in a car for five hours—engine off, radio silent, heart hammering like a war drum—just for a single glimpse of someone. You don’t reroute surveillance feeds. You don’t memorize her shower schedule. You don’t breathe through the echo of her voice when she isn’t even saying your name.

Not unless you’re broken. And I was. Maxine Andrade shattered me. And I haven’t stopped bleeding since.

She slipped away from the Gatti compound in a single day—no fanfare, no goodbyes. Just a bag over her shoulder and that look in her eyes...like she knew it was a suicide mission and took it anyway.

She moved into a third-floor walk-up. Paper-thin walls. A busted lock I had already replaced without her knowing. She thought she was free. But freedom doesn’t look good on a girl like Maxine Andrade.

So I watched. That was all I let myself do.

Two blocks away, tucked behind a row of shuttered takeout joints and pawn shops, I watched her fumble with her keys like the world wasn’t waiting to swallow her whole. Rain streaked the windshield, each drop sliding down the glass like a countdown I couldn’t stop.

There she was.

Nervous. Fidgeting. Glancing over her shoulder like some primal instinct was still kicking, trying to warn her she wasn’t alone.

I wanted her afraid. Because monsters didn’t hide under beds anymore. They walked the streets. Wore uniforms. Carried badges. Smiled like old friends. Hell—I was one of them.

She disappeared inside, and I pulled up the feed. Grainy black-and-white. But she was there.

She paced her tiny living room like the floorboards were on fire. Barefoot. Messy bun slipping. Baggy t-shirt hanging off one shoulder like even fabric couldn’t figure out how to comfort her anymore.

The apartment was the size of a prison cell. And she paced it like she had never left the one I found her in.

I felt sick. Not because of what she was doing—because of what I hadn’t done. I hadn’t knocked. Hadn’t spoken. I stayed away from her and watched from a distance.

I watched her every move, learned all her routines. Inside and outside of the house. I watched as Maxine stood on a cracked sidewalk, waiting for a damn crosswalk light to change like she wasn’t the epicenter of my every goddamn earthquake.

She didn’t see me. She had her headphones in—white wires coiled like shackles, drowning out the world—and she was staring off into the distance like it was safer than looking back.

Safer than looking at me, if she only knew I was there.

My breath caught, and I hated that it did.

Hated that after all this time, just one glimpse of her could wreck me from the inside out .

But I couldn’t help it.

She looked different. Not softer, and not healed. Just... lonelier. Like she had built her own kind of prison now, this one cloaked in vulnerability and half-smiles and silence.

And all I could think was—I did this to her. I kept a safe distance. And still... still, this was the closest I had gotten. The first time she had been within reach without her army. Without her safety net.

Maxine crossed the street, and I followed. Distant. Cautious. Like a ghost.

Because what the hell do you say to the woman you once tried to save... and ended up destroying instead?

She slipped into the coffee shop a few blocks away—where she now worked. I knew her hours. I knew her choice of brew. I knew the smile she faked when people tipped her and the way she wiped her palms down her apron when she was anxious. She didn’t know I was there, that I had never really left her.

And as I stood outside that shitty glass door, I wondered if I had the balls to walk in. To say something. To have a conversation without the eyes of her family on us.

She was wearing an apron that didn’t fit right. Her hair tied back in a low, lazy knot. Sleeves pushed up to her elbows, exposing the kind of skin I still dreamt about when the nights grew long and my conscience got loud.

She was wiping down a counter, brow furrowed, completely unaware of the war she just started in my chest.

I paused across the street. Just for a second. Then I crossed the road and walked in.

The bell above the door chimed. That soft, innocent sound that has no idea it’s marking the beginning of a collision.

The second I stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted.

Not just for me, but for everyone. The barista at the register stiffened.

A woman with a stroller faltered mid-order.

The two college kids in the corner stopped talking.

Because I didn’t belong there. Not in my tailored coat.

Not with the holster under my arm. Not with the kind of energy that made men sit straighter and women edge toward the exits.

But I didn’t care. Because everything else ceased to exist the minute she looked up and her eyes connected with mine.

Her entire body went still behind the counter, sponge hovering in midair like she forgot what to do with it.

The air thickened. Tightened. My pulse didn’t spike—it anchored. Sank into my bones.

She turned to the espresso machine like I was nothing more than an unwelcome gust of wind. But I saw the tremble in her hand.

I stepped forward, slow and deliberate, just to piss her off.

“Americano,” I said evenly. “No sugar.”

Maxine didn’t look at me. Didn’t speak or engage me in conversation like she did the other patrons.

She turned, made the drink, and set it down on the counter with a thunk louder than necessary. I let it sit there. Then I reached for it, careful to touch the exact spot her hand just touched. My fingers brushed over the warmth, absorbing it like I was allowed to keep a piece of her.

She still didn’t speak.

I took a sip. It was scalding. Perfect.

“I didn’t know you worked here,” I said casually. I just wanted to hear her voice.

Her eyes rose to mine, flat and lifeless and done. “Well, now you do,” she said, voice clipped.

“I should come more often,” I offered, voice testing.

“Or not,” she said. “Plenty of other coffee shops around.”

She turned to help another customer without waiting for a response, like I was just static on a radio she didn’t have to acknowledge. But I didn’t move. I watched her instead .

She talked to a woman with a toddler—gentle voice, small smile.

Asked if they wanted whipped cream on the hot chocolate.

She tapped the screen with fingers that once curled around my soul.

Her laugh was soft, automatic. But I saw it.

The way she glanced at the door every few minutes like she was checking for an exit.

The way her shoulder tensed every time someone got too close.

The way she leaned away from men when she handed them their drinks.

But not from me. She doesn’t flinch. Because Maxine doesn’t fear me. She resents me.

I’m glad. That’s safer.

She finished her interaction and turned back to me, jaw set.

“Are you done watching me, or are you waiting for applause?”

I lifted the coffee. “Just finishing my drink.”

“Then drink it and go.”

I leaned against the counter, casual as hell. “You always this warm with customers?”

“Just the ones I don’t like.”

That lands but I don’t react. Just sipped again, my eyes never leaving her.

She was trembling, subtly. Hands shaking as she grabbed a rag, wiped the same spot twice.

“So, you work here now?”

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answers to.”

We stared each other down.

The silence grew, heavy and deliberate. The barista at the register glanced between us, like he was debating calling someone for help. But Maxine didn’t break. Not with me standing five feet away, holding her heat between my palms and watching her unravel one heartbeat at a time.

Eventually, she exhaled hard. Loud. A sigh of deep resignation .

“What do you want, North? Why are you here?”

“Coffee. That’s why I’m here.”

“And yet, you’re taking up so much of my oxygen. Breathe quieter. Or better yet, don’t breathe at all.”

The insult landed like a slap. To be honest, I didn’t know she had it in her. But now I know better. I gave her a small nod, acknowledging her words. Sipped slow. Then left the cup half-full on the counter with a hefty tip and walked out.

Because I already got what I came for.

Her. In my head again. Where she’s always been. And exactly where she fucking belongs.