The coffee shop was the same. That was the first thing you noticed when you stepped inside, the familiar scent of roasted beans and vanilla hitting you like a memory you weren’t ready for. The second thing you noticed was him.

Sebastian Griffin Cross.

He was standing by the counter, looking damn near the same as he did eight years ago—broad shoulders, piercing blue eyes, and that frustratingly handsome smirk that used to drive you insane. He was laughing at something the barista said, easy and charming, like time hadn’t pulled the two of you apart.

Your grip tightened around your daughter’s hand. “Come on, sweetheart, let’s go.”

Too late. He turned.

And just like that, his smile vanished.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Eight years of silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating, before his gaze dropped—to the little girl at your side.

There was a charged moment of silence. "How old is she?" Griffin asked, taking in the familiar steel blue eyes looking up at him.

“How old are you?” he asked, voice tight.

Your stomach clenched. “Don’t answer him.”

Your daughter blinked up at you, confused, as you tugged her toward the door. But Griffin wasn’t done. He took a step forward, calling out again.

“How old are you, kid?”

You moved faster, but your daughter was curious, and she had your stubborn streak. She yanked her hand free, turned around, and shouted, “Seven! Now, why is everyone yelling?”

The world stopped.

Griffin’s face went pale. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“She’s seven?” he finally managed.

You swallowed hard. “Griffin—”

Your daughter looked up at you, her brow furrowed. “Mom?”

Griffin took another step forward, like he couldn’t help himself. His voice was rough, almost desperate.

“Is this my daughter?”