Page 26 of The Vagabond

MAXINE

I wake up to quiet.

Something hums in the air, and it feels like someone was just here. The sun hasn’t fully risen yet. The edges of the sky are soft and gray, the city still stretching its limbs. I lie in bed for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling, trying to shake off the weight in my chest.

Then I smell it.

Not coffee.

Not my jasmine lotion.

Him.

Cedar and oud. It’s everywhere. That clean, masculine scent I used to breathe in when he was too close. The scent that clung to my pillows for weeks after he disappeared. My heart does something stupid and traitorous in my chest.

I push back the covers slowly, like moving too fast might scare the feeling away. Like if I breathe too loud, I’ll wake up from something that’s still happening.

When I walk into the living room, I know.

The glass is there. Sitting on the coffee table, half full of red wine.

I didn’t leave it. Zack didn’t either. It’s his .

I stare at it, pulse thrumming in my ears.

I don’t touch it. Just stand there and look at it like it’s a message written in invisible ink.

He was here. He sat on my couch. He drank from that bottle.

He watched me sleep. And I didn’t even stir.

A chill rolls down my spine as I walk to the couch and lower myself into the cushion—the same spot where Zack sat last night.

But the scent left behind isn’t Zack’s anymore.

It’s been replaced. Overwritten. Claimed.

Saxon was here, and now there’s no trace of anyone else.

It should make me angry. It should make me scream, slam things, call him and remind him that he is completely deranged.

But I don’t. I just sit there and feel him.

He never leaves me, even when he does. He lingers in the walls, in the shadows, in the pauses between heartbeats.

And this? This glass? This smell? It’s a reminder.

That I’ll never be free of him. No matter where I go, no matter who I let in—he’ll always be there.

Watching. Waiting. Buried beneath my skin like a bad habit I don’t want to quit.

And the worst part? I’m not even sad about it.

Just… confused. Conflicted. Because a part of me hated waking up without him.

And another part is terrified that I liked waking up to the idea that he was here.

The bells over the coffee shop door jingle, soft and innocuous.

I don’t look up at first. I’m too busy pretending to be fine.

Smiling at customers, wiping down counters, topping off whipped cream with automatic muscle memory.

Everything hurts beneath the surface—like there’s a raw nerve under my skin, twitching every time the door swings open.

I keep telling myself it’s fine. That I imagined the glass. That I imagined him .

But then I hear the voice. Not the one I’ve been waiting for. The one I’ve been trying to accept .

“Hey, gorgeous,” Zack purrs, leaning across the counter like I belong to him. “You’re a sight for sore eyes this morning.”

I tighten my grip around the paper cup in my hands and force a smile that takes too much effort.

“Hi, Zack,” I say, my voice flat, tired. “You want your usual?”

There’s a flicker in his eyes—surprise, maybe.

Annoyance. He’s used to getting more from me.

Yesterday, I let him charm me. Let myself laugh, even.

But today? Today, I woke up with Saxon’s scent in my apartment.

Cedar and steel and darkness—the lingering whiff of oud clinging to the air like a warning.

He’d been in my apartment. Touched something.

Maybe everything. I felt it. That prickle along my spine.

The weight in the air. The ghost of him pressed into the silence has thrown my whole morning off.

Zack isn’t Saxon.

And now? All I see is the way Zack’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

The way his words curl up my spine like an irritating fire I can’t put out.

I feel nothing but annoyed by his presence.

I open my mouth to tell him just that. But before I can even speak, the air shifts.

Heavy. Cold. Electric. I feel his [presence before he comes into view.

Saxon.

He moves through the doorway like a storm in slow motion—boots thudding, coat open, jaw tight.

The five-day stubble on his jaw is darker now, his wavy light brown hair pushed back like he hasn’t slept in a while.

His eyes—those goddamn piercing green eyes—find mine before I’m even ready to face him.

And suddenly, I’m a bundle of loose, chaotic nerves.

My heart trips. My stomach drops. The cup almost slips from my hands.

He’s built to protect—broad chest, thick arms under the tailored suit, body braced for violence. There’s something barely restrained beneath the surface, coiled like a fuse burning slow .

Zack turns just as Saxon steps through the door. And for once, the grin slips. The smart mouth stalls. There’s a flicker — not fear exactly, but the sharp awareness of a man who’s suddenly aware he’s out of his depth.

“What’s up, officer?” Zack says, the words stretched thin, his smirk a little too forced to be real.

Saxon doesn’t blink. His stare lands like a hammer. Solid. Unmoving. Cold.

“It’s Supervisory Special Agent,” Saxon says, his voice low, each syllable deliberate. “And you’re a long way from your side of town.”

Zack squares his shoulders, tries to reclaim the swagger.

“Got a problem, man?”

Saxon steps closer — no rush, no posturing, just the steady press of someone who knows exactly how much space he can take and how little effort it’ll take to break someone in it.

“The problem,” Saxon says quietly, “is I know exactly who you and what you are.”

Zack’s smirk twitches, falters. He lets out a dry laugh, but it’s brittle. Thin. Like he can hear the ground shifting under his feet and can’t figure out why.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Saxon tilts his head, eyes flat.

Zack’s face twitches. His fists curl, but his mouth can’t seem to keep up.

“Here’s a piece of advice,” Saxon says, voice calm, his words sliding in like a knife between ribs.

“Leave. Before you make this harder on yourself than it has to be.”

Zack’s jaw works, eyes darting to me, like he’s searching for a lifeline. I stay still, just as confused as he is.

Saxon doesn’t even glance at me. His focus is absolute, pinning Zack where he stands .

“You’ve got no idea what you’re stepping into,” Saxon murmurs. “And no idea what I’ll do to you.”

Zack lets out a breath — part scoff, part retreat. He shakes his head, backs off, throws me a look that’s all frustration, all confusion, all what the hell just happened .

But he doesn’t say another word. He turns and leaves. The door chimes as he leaves. Silence follows. Heavy and loaded. I exhale slowly. But the worst part? The part I hate myself for? I don’t feel relief. I feel longing.

Because while Zack was harmless, forgettable, Saxon is none of those things. He’s every sharp edge I’ve ever bled on. Every dark corner I can’t stop returning to. And no matter how many times I try to shut him out…he’s already under my skin. He’s always been under my skin.

I stare at Saxon like he’s a grenade that hasn’t gone off yet. My pulse is hammering behind my ribs, equal parts fury and relief. Something hot and primal and reckless thrums through me. Destruction.

“What are you doing?” I hiss.

He lifts a brow, casual as ever. “Saving you from a poor decision.”

“Stop interfering in my life, Saxon,” I hiss, eyes locked on his infuriatingly calm face. “You can’t just show up here like this?—”

My voice rises, but I don’t care. He’s too close. Too calm. Like he hasn’t been gone for three weeks. Like he didn’t leave me spiraling in silence and then walk back in like he still owns the air I breathe. He can’t keep doing this to me.

“My boss is already on my ass and?—”

“Maxine, sweetheart.”

Right on cue, Mrs. Raymond’s voice cuts through the air—sweet but sharp, that practiced middle ground worn into her over a decade of babysitting baristas. She steps behind the counter with the kind of calm that makes my nerves itch, her lips pressed into a line that isn’t angry—just tired.

“Maybe take ten, huh?” she says gently, eyes flicking between me and Saxon. “Some customers are looking a little… tense.”

She gives Saxon a once-over. It’s that measured, watchful look she reserves for the type of men she claims should be avoided.

“You know how it is,” she adds, shooting me a look that isn’t condescending, just… concerned. I swallow hard and nod.

“Yes, Mrs. Raymond,” I mutter, trying not to sound like I’m about to cry or punch a wall.

She straps on an apron with quiet grace as she resets the espresso machine before she moves to help the next customer, her presence filling the space like a warm buffer between chaos and collapse.

I don’t even take off my apron as I shove through the back door and step into the alley beside the building, arms folded across my chest like a barrier I wish could hold back my emotions.

Saxon follows without hesitation, then leans against the wall like he has every right to exist in this moment—shoulders relaxed, hands in the pockets of his trousers like he isn’t a walking pressure cooker about to explode.

I want to scream at him. Ask where he’s been. Why he disappeared after lighting every nerve in my body on fire and walking away without looking back. But I don’t get the chance. Because instead of explaining , he drops a bomb on me.

“He left drugs in your apartment, Max.”

I blink. My mouth opens. Then closes.

“What?”

“Zack,” Saxon says, like the name tastes like acid on his tongue. “He dropped a vial of drugs in your apartment.”

“You went through my apartment?” I ask, my voice low, brittle, cracking down the middle. I mentally roll my eyes at myself; just like me to be more concerned about Saxon going through my apartment than the fact he claims to have found drugs in it.

“I sat on your sofa. The vial was pretty hard to miss,” he corrects, stepping forward. His eyes are bright with something between self-loathing and guilt.

“You want to warn me about what others are leaving in my apartment, when you’re the one breaking in?”

“I think you’re trusting the wrong men,” he growls, eyes flashing.

“And you’re the right one?” I snap. “You disappear for weeks, and now you’re interrogating my life like I’m some dumb little girl who doesn’t know better?”

“I’m protecting you.”

“No. You’re controlling me. There’s a difference.”

His jaw tics. His breath flares from his nose, and I know he wants to yell. To pace. To grab me by the shoulders and shake sense into me. But he doesn’t. Instead, he steps back. The distance feels colder than it should.

“Zack’s not who he says he is,” he says quietly, voice gravelly. “And I don’t care if you hate me for the rest of your life, but I won’t let you get pulled into this shit again.”

I look at him, really look at him. At the bruised skin under his eyes.

The light brown waves falling messily across his forehead.

The growth on his jaw that should make him look tired but somehow makes him look dangerous.

Like he hasn't slept in days because he’s been chasing demons.

And maybe one of those demons looks a little like me.

And in the quiet corners of my mind, I know that I still want him. Still want to run straight into the fire with him. And if I had a hundred lifetimes to live, I would choose him every time.

And somehow, he knows it. It’s in the way his gaze softens just slightly when he looks at me, like maybe he still wants me too. Like maybe this isn’t just war. It’s ours.

My throat closes. I shake my head, needing to push back, needing to breathe.

“I don’t need to lose my job over you,” I whisper.

“I already lost my sanity over you,” he says, voice raw.

God.

I hate how he makes my heart twist. I hate how my body reacts to that voice, to those words. I hate that this man can barge into my life like a wrecking ball and make me feel safe and seen and completely unhinged all at once.

“You can’t just enter and exit my life whenever you feel like it, claiming a piece of me every time you go, Saxon,” I whisper, trembling. “You can’t make something out of nothing. We are nothing. ”

His jaw clenches. He leans in, breath brushing my cheek.

“I’ll be damned if I let someone like him sink his claws into you while I stand here doing nothing.”

I swallow hard.

“I’m not yours to save.”

He stares at me for a long moment, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of my face, the quake in my voice.

“I know,” he says quietly. “But I can’t stop trying.”