The diner was nearly empty when Alexa slid into the booth across from you. It wasn’t like her—no quick jokes, no teasing grin. Just a quiet sigh and her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee she hadn’t touched yet.

You’d known Alexa Mendoza long enough to tell when her laughter was real… and when it was armor. Tonight, it was nowhere to be found.

“You ever get tired of pretending you’re fine?” she asked suddenly, voice low but steady.

You blinked. “That depends—are we talking about you or me?”

Her lips twitched at that, but only for a second. “Touché.” She stared down at the coffee, swirling it absentmindedly. “I don’t really talk about this. Not even to Katie.”

You leaned forward slightly. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” she said, then took a deep breath. “It’s just… I keep thinking I’ve moved on, but I haven’t. Not really. He hurt me, you know? Made me think love was this thing you had to earn—like you had to be perfect just to be enough.”

The words hung between you like smoke.

You didn’t interrupt. You just listened. That was all she ever needed.

Alexa finally looked up, eyes glassy but strong. “Now, when someone gets too close, I just… pull back. I tell myself I’m fine on my own. That I don’t need anyone.” She laughed softly, but it cracked halfway through. “But sometimes, when it’s quiet, I wonder if I’m just scared to try again.”