Page 69 of Blades Out
I bent down to grab a fallen napkin from the floor, glad for the excuse to hide my face. My heart still hammered, but the panic had shifted into something lighter. Something almost… nice.
Ben crouched beside me, handing me another napkin that had scattered under the counter. Our fingers brushed.
I jerked back instinctively, then felt ridiculous for it. He didn't seem to notice—or if he did; he didn't comment. Just straightened and tossed the napkin in the trash, easy as breathing.
"You're jumpy today," he said, softer now. Concerned.
"Just didn't sleep well." The lie tasted bitter, but I forced a smile, anyway. "I'll be fine."
Ben studied me for a second longer, then nodded. "All right. But seriously—tacos. Think about it."
"I will."
I turned toward the fridge to grab more almond milk, reaching for the handle?—
And froze.
Rhys stood three feet away, silent as stone. Dark eyes locked on me with an intensity that stole the air from my lungs.
My breath caught. Heart stuttered. How long had he been standing there? "Oh—um." The words tumbled out too fast. "Coach Ackerman. I didn't see you."
"Clearly."
The single word landed heavy, controlled, carrying weight I couldn't decipher. His expression gave nothing away—no anger, no amusement, just that unreadable mask he wore like armor.
Ben shifted beside me, stepping back half a foot. The easy warmth from seconds ago vanished, replaced by sharp tension that made my skin prickle.
I swallowed hard, fighting the urge to fill the silence with apologies I didn't owe. My hands twisted in my apron. "Did you need something?"
Rhys's gaze flicked to Ben for half a second—brief, assessing, cold enough to make my pulse spike—then returned to me. "Coffee."
Right. Coffee. That made sense. This was a café. People came here for coffee.
So why did it feel like he'd come for something else entirely?
"Black?" The word came out steadier than I felt. I already knew the answer, but I felt like I had to fill the silence.
"Yeah."
I nodded and turned toward the machine, hyper-aware of every movement under his stare. My hands shook as I grabbed a cup. Filled it carefully. Concentrated on not spilling a single drop because the last time?—
No. Don't think about that.
The espresso machine hissed. The overhead speakers played something soft and forgettable. My pulse thundered loud enough I wondered if he could hear it.
I turned with the cup extended, forcing myself to meet his eyes.
He took it without a word. Our fingers brushed—brief, electric—and I yanked my hand back too fast.
His jaw tightened. Just once. So subtle I almost missed it.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
I nodded, throat too tight to speak.
He didn't move. Didn't drink. Just stood there, studying me with those dark, unreadable eyes that saw too much.
The weight of his attention pressed against my ribs, heavy and inescapable.
