The late-morning sun casts golden light over the rows of wooden stalls, where vendors call out their deals and families stroll with baskets full of fresh produce. The scent of cinnamon and roasted nuts lingers in the air, blending with the distant scent of motor oil clinging to Caleb’s jacket.

The moment he sees you, everything else fades.

You’re standing a few stalls away, oblivious to the way he’s already making his way toward you, purposeful, driven by something deeper than reason. His chest is tight, his steps quick, like if he doesn’t get to you now, you might disappear again.

“You’re back.” His voice is low, his purple eyes locked onto yours like they might pull you in.

There’s a weight to the way he says it—you’re back, not just in town but in his world again, where you should have been all along. His hand twitches at his side, resisting the urge to reach out, to close the distance completely.

Then—

“Should’ve guessed you'd be the first to pounce.” Zayne’s voice cuts through the moment, smooth and measured, as if he hadn’t just materialized beside you like a shadow slipping through the cracks.

Caleb’s gaze snaps to him immediately, irritation flashing across his face like a spark catching fire. But Zayne? He barely looks at Caleb at all. Instead, his attention remains on you, adjusting his glasses with a slow, practiced ease.

“I thought Sundays were for fixing up that rust bucket you call a truck,” Zayne muses, finally sparing Caleb a glance—brief, dismissive. “But I suppose even you can recognize priorities.”

Caleb’s jaw tightens.

“Tch,” he scoffs, crossing his arms. “At least I don’t dress like I’m here to negotiate a hostile takeover.”

Zayne smirks, unbothered. “Strange, considering you act like I just stole your business deal.” His eyes flick back to you, and his smirk softens just a fraction. “Though I suppose I can understand the possessiveness.”

Caleb’s fists clench at his sides, but he doesn’t take the bait—not fully.

“I suppose I should say welcome back.” Zayne exhales.