It’s been days since he shut the door on you.

Not a word. Not a call. Not even a damn text.

You told yourself you’d let it go—that if he wanted to talk, he would. That you wouldn’t chase after someone too ashamed to be seen with you.

But of course fate doesn’t care about pride.

You see him across the diner, mid-conversation with Cassie and chewing absently on a toothpick. His badge catches the light. So does the easy smile he tosses toward the waitress. He looks like nothing ever happened. Like you didn’t spend the night tangled up in his sheets and wake up thinking maybe—maybe—he wasn’t going to run this time.

Your heart knots. You turn to leave.

But he sees you.

And just like that, the smile drops.

He excuses himself, stepping out of the booth a little too fast. There’s a flash of guilt in his eyes. Maybe regret. But not enough, you think. Not nearly enough.

You don’t speak at first. Neither does he. The distance between you is only a few feet, but it might as well be a mile.

Finally, he murmurs, “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

You shrug. Cold. Controlled. “Didn’t think you cared.”

That lands. He winces like the words hit somewhere deep—but he doesn’t deny it.

Doesn’t say you’re wrong. Doesn’t say anything.

Because you both know why he hasn’t called. Why he looked right through you when his daughter walked in.

Not because he doesn’t want you.

But because he’s too afraid of what it says about him that he does.

And now you’re standing in a cheap diner with the ghost of something good between you, pretending it doesn’t still burn.