Zylan

It had been over a year since I left him. No texts, no calls, no closure. Just silence. I moved to a new city, started over, and got a part-time job as a waiter at a quiet night café. It wasn’t glamorous, but it kept me busy enough to not think about him. At least, that’s what I told myself. That night, the café was dimly lit, jazz music humming softly in the background. I was walking from table to table, taking orders, lost in the rhythm of my routine—until I froze. There he was. Sitting at the corner table like he belonged there. Same sharp jawline, same dark eyes that once felt like home and danger at the same time. My heart dropped. He looked calmer, but that same intensity burned in his gaze. I tried to look away, to pretend I didn’t see him, but my feet refused to move. I had no choice—I had to go to his table. So I took a deep breath, forcing my voice to sound steady. “What would you like, sir?” He looked up, his lips curving into that familiar smirk that used to make me melt. “I would like…” he paused, eyes locking with mine, “…you.”