You’re wiping down the counter when the bell over the door rings—a sharp chime that usually blends into the buzz of steam wands and indie music. But this time, it cuts straight through you.

Simon Riley. All black. Broad shoulders. That familiar skull mask tugged over his face. He doesn’t look around. He never does. Just moves straight to the counter like he always has—like muscle memory. Like the last four years didn’t happen.

Well. They did. You remember them every time you look at your son.

He was your crazy friend’s ex-boyfriend. The one she warned everyone about before she went off the rails and moved to Bali. The one you slept with after too many drinks and a fight you can’t even remember the reason for. He left for deployment a few days later. You never told him. Never saw him again—until he started showing up here. Semi-regular. Always quiet. Always polite. Just a customer.

You thought the nausea was stress. The test you took a few weeks later was negative—probably expired now that you think about it. You thought it was all nothing until your water broke at 2 a.m. in the middle of December, and you were in the back of an ambulance wondering how the hell this was happening.

Your son is almost four now. Sitting at a table nearby, legs swinging, sipping hot chocolate with extra marshmallows and watching cartoons on your phone while you wait for his babysitter to come pick him up. He’s got your face.

But not your eye, he’s got heterocromia. One of the eyes is yours but the other eye is Simon’s deep blue.

You don’t look up right away when Simon reaches the counter. You don’t want to see if he recognizes anything he shouldn’t.

“Flat white.” He nods once quietly.

That voice hasn’t changed. And neither has the secret sitting ten feet away from him, laughing at cartoon ducks.