I was in the storage room of the café, crouched low, refilling the sugar containers and trying to decide if I hated my life more before or after cinnamon became part of my daily scent.

The radio hummed softly behind me, some Backstreet Boys song blending into the clink of ceramic mugs and the dull rush of milk steaming behind the counter. I was singing along, half-heartedly and off-key, when I heard it.

His voice.

Muffled. Frantic. Breathless. Familiar in the way that made my skin prickle and my heart collapse in on itself.

My whole body stilled, every nerve in my body on high alert. Mid-scoop, I blinked down at the half-filled glass dispenser in front of me, not sure if I was imagining things.

No. No, that wasn’t possible.

It was low at first—just a murmur through the wall, indistinct and impossible to confirm.

But then I heard it again. Louder.

“Beverly. I’m looking for Beverly.”

I stayed frozen, kneeling in the middle of the storage room, my breath caught somewhere between my throat and my lungs.

I hadn’t heard his voice in four months.

Four whole months.

Aunt Mary’s voice followed—calm, composed.

“I think you’ve got the wrong café.”

There was a pause.

Then Blake’s voice, clearer now, sharper. “No, I don’t think so. You think I don’t recognize her handwriting on your menu? She’s here. I know she’s here. I can feel her⁠—”

I pressed my back against the shelf, sugar still clutched in my hand, every cell in my body humming.

“I’m telling you,” Aunt Mary’s voice floated in, calm but firm, “there’s no Beverly here. You must be mistaken.”

“You’re lying,” he said. “I can literally smell her. Tommy Girl. I’d know that scent anywhere.” He sounded unhinged. Panicked. The kind of desperation that cuts through bone.

“I’m asking you to leave,” she replied. “You’re disturbing my customers,” she added, more firmly this time.

“No,” Blake snapped. “Not until I see her.”

The walls between the back and front felt thinner than paper.

“I don’t know what to tell you. There’s no Beverly here⁠—”

I heard the clatter of something fall.

Someone gasped in the café.

“I’m not leaving. I’ll sit right here on this floor for as long as it takes. Until she comes out, until someone makes her talk to me. Or I’ll wait for you to finish your shift and follow you home. Either way, you’re not getting rid of me.”

“You’re not doing this,” Aunt Mary said, more forcefully now. “I’m calling the police.”

“Oh, God,” I whispered, one hand flying to my chest.

“Go ahead,” Blake said. “Call them. What are they going to do? Arrest me for looking for someone I love?”

I covered my mouth with both hands.