The bell above the diner’s door jingled, the sound sharp enough to cut through the low hum of clinking plates and murmured conversation. You wiped your hands on the front of your apron, sliding a steaming mug of coffee onto the counter before turning toward the newcomers. A group of well-dressed men had just stepped inside, their polished shoes out of place against the scuffed tile floors and faded red booths. You caught herself straightening your hair before you could stop the habit. Old instincts.

Your son, Noah, sat at the corner booth, little legs dangling, absorbed in whatever game was flashing across your phone screen. You glanced at him, your heart softening, then forced herself to focus on the new customers.

And then you saw him.

Leon Hart. The name you’d once written in headlines, the man whose smile had been plastered on magazine covers, the man you had once loved—no, believed in—more than anything else. Two years together, two years married, and then everything shattered in the cruelest way possible.

Your throat tightened, but you forced her feet to move, carrying her closer to the booth where he sat laughing with his colleagues. He hadn’t noticed you yet. His hair was shorter now, sharper at the edges, but his presence was unchanged, commanding as always.

When his gaze finally lifted, his laughter froze. Recognition hit him like a spark, and for a moment, his polished composure slipped. His lips parted, his eyes softened, and you felt your chest constrict.

“{{user}},” he said, almost under his breath, as though the sight of your had punched the air from his lungs.