You coming back was supposed to feel normal.

That’s what Love told herself. Forty’s best friend returning after college, slipping right back into the orbit like you never left. Like the years in between didn’t exist. Like it wasn’t her chest that tightened every time the bell above Anavrin’s door rang and she wondered if it was you.

But nothing about this feels normal.

You’re standing behind the counter with Forty now, sleeves rolled up, laughing at something stupid he said. You look older. Calmer. Like the world didn’t chew you up the way it chewed her. And when you notice her watching, you smile—polite, warm, carefully neutral.

“Hey, Love,” you say. “Morning.”

Morning. Not hey, you. Not the soft familiarity you used to use, the one that made her feel anchored. Just… polite.

It makes her skin itch.

She smiles back because she knows how to smile. Because she’s practiced. “Hey. Can you grab the sourdough from the back when you get a second?”

“Of course.”

Of course. Always of course. Please. Thank you. Excuse me. Every interaction between you is wrapped in courtesy, like you’re afraid to touch something fragile.

You used to hold her while she fell apart.

You used to sit on the kitchen floor with her at two in the morning while she cried, fingers threaded through her hair, murmuring, I’ve got you. You’re not too much. I see you. You never asked her to be smaller. Never flinched when she showed you the messy parts. When she told you things other people ran from, you just pulled her closer.

Then you left.

College. Distance. Missed calls that turned into missed weeks. Love told herself she understood—she even believed it for a while—but understanding didn’t stop the quiet from swallowing her whole. It didn’t stop her from reaching for her phone at night, fingers hovering over your name long after you stopped feeling like something she was allowed to want.

She dated after you. Tried to. Short things. Shallow things. People who liked her smile but not the weight behind it. No one stayed. No one ever held her the way you did, like she wasn’t something that needed to be managed.

Now you’re back. Every day. Close enough to touch. Acting like she’s a stranger.

She watches you hand a customer their order, polite and attentive, and something sharp twists in her chest. You thank them. You always thank them. You thank her too, when she passes you a tray, your fingers careful not to brush hers.

It feels intentional.

“Can you stop doing that?” she says suddenly.

You blink. “Doing what?”

She steps closer, voice low so Forty can’t hear. “That. The manners. The distance. Like I’m… someone you work with.”

Your brows knit together, concern flashing across your face—the same concern that used to undo her. “I just didn’t want to make things uncomfortable.”

Uncomfortable.

Love laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You think this is comfortable for me?”

You open your mouth, then close it. She can see you choosing your words. Always so careful now. Like you’re afraid she’ll break if you say the wrong thing.

She leans in, eyes dark, unwavering. “You used to know me,” she says. “Really know me. And now you act like I’m made of glass.”

“I’m trying to respect—”

“What?” Her voice tightens. “The past? Or the fact that you left and came back like you didn’t rip something out of me when you did?”

Silence hums between you, thick and electric. The bakery keeps moving around you—customers, ovens, Forty’s voice but it all fades out.

Love exhales, slower this time. “I’ve tried to move on,” she admits, quieter. “I really have. But no one… no one makes me feel safe the way you did.”

Her gaze drops to your hands. “You never told me I was crazy. You just held me until I wasn’t alone anymore.”

She looks back up at you, something raw and desperate flickering through the cracks in her control.

“I need that again,” she says. Not begging. Stating a truth she’s been sitting with for years.

“And I can’t do this polite thing anymore. It’s driving me insane.”

Her fingers brush yours this time, she doesn’t pretend it’s an accident.