Page 114 of No One But Me
Stop.
I grabbed mugs from the shelf—three, in case more workers showed up—and set them on the counter harder than necessary.
The coffee finished brewing.
I poured carefully, watching the dark liquid fill each mug. Steam curled upward, soft and ephemeral.
I carried two cups back out to the main floor.
The younger worker glanced up from his measuring tape. Surprise flickered across his face.
"Coffee," I said simply, extending one mug toward him.
He took it with a slight smile. "Thanks. Didn't expect that."
I crossed to the other man and offered the second cup.
He accepted it with a nod. "Appreciate it."
I didn't respond. Just turned and walked back toward the counter, where I could see them but didn't have to engage.
The coffee was something I could give without cost. Without consequences.
A kindness I controlled.
Unlike everything else.
The morning passed in careful motions.
I straightened books. Adjusted displays. Wiped down surfaces that didn't need wiping. All while pretending the workers weren't there. All while pretending my body didn't ache with every movement.
The memory hit like cold water.
The game.
I froze mid-reach for a book, fingers hovering above the spine.
Gideon's voice in my ear, low and certain: I have a game in two days.
That was the day before yesterday.
Which meant?—
Today.
Tonight.
You'll be there. In my jersey.
My stomach dropped.
Everyone will know who you belong to.
The book slipped from my grasp and hit the floor with a dull thud.
One of the workers glanced over. I ignored him, bending to retrieve it with shaking hands.
I'd forgotten. In the chaos of yesterday—the punishment, the aftercare, the breaking and rebuilding—I'd completely forgotten.
