Lena’s POV
“Can I get a refill?”
The man at table four rattled his empty coffee cup, barely looking at me. I forced a tight smile, nodding as I grabbed the pot from the counter. My shift had been dragging, the hours blending together in a haze of grease, caffeine, and exhaustion.
Then the air changed.
The diner was the same—low hum of conversation, clatter of dishes, the hiss of the coffee machine—but suddenly, it felt different. Heavier.
I knew that feeling.
I had felt it once before.
I looked up.
And there he was.
Ezekiel Donahue.
Alive.
My fingers tightened around the handle of the coffee pot, my breath catching in my throat. He sat in the corner booth, elbows resting on the table, long fingers lazily tracing the rim of his glass of water.
His eyes—colder than I remembered, sharper—locked onto mine the second I saw him.
I felt my pulse hammer against my ribs. He was different now. Older. Stronger. More dangerous. What the hell was he doing here?
I forced myself to breathe, forced my feet to move as I walked toward him. I couldn’t run. Not here. Not with so many people watching.
I stopped at his table, gripping my tray like it was my last anchor to reality.
“Can I get you something?” My voice was steady. That was good.
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. Not quite a smile—more like a knowing smirk.
“Lena.”
He said my name so smoothly, like it meant something. Like we were old friends, not two people tied together by a night we had both barely survived.
I didn’t answer. Didn’t let myself react. I turned to walk away. Big mistake.
A hand wrapped around my wrist—not rough, not painful, just firm. Solid.
A silent message: I’m not letting you go this time. A shiver ran down my spine. Not just from fear. Slowly, I looked back at him.
His grip was steady, his fingers warm against my skin.
Up close, he was even more dangerous than I remembered. The boy I had saved five years ago had been broken, lost, bleeding.
This man?
He was in control. Of himself. Of everything around him.
And now… of me.
“Let me go,” I said, my voice quieter this time. He tilted his head, studying me. “I don’t think you want that.”
I swallowed. “You don’t know what I want.”
His grip didn’t loosen. “You’re right,” he said softly. “But we’re about to change that.”
The way he said it sent a ripple through me. I wasn’t sure if it was warning or promise.
Maybe both. I pulled my wrist back, and this time, he let me go. But he didn’t look away.
I straightened, schooling my expression. “You shouldn’t be here.”
His smirk deepened. “Neither should you.”
I stiffened. “Excuse me?”
“You changed your name,” he said, eyes flicking to the name tag on my apron. “Lena Mercer? That’s cute.”
My stomach twisted. How much did he know? How much had he found?
I glanced around the diner, hyper-aware of how exposed we were. The last thing I needed was Jody, my boss, or any of the customers seeing me lose it over some stranger—because that’s all Zeke was supposed to be.
A stranger. A ghost from a past I had buried. “I have customers to serve,” I said, voice clipped.
Zeke leaned back, his expression unreadable. “Then I’ll wait.”
I inhaled sharply. “For what?”
His gaze darkened.
“For you to stop running.”
Heat rushed to my face, but it wasn’t anger. It wasn’t fear, either. It was something else.
Something I couldn’t afford to feel. I turned and walked away, my hands trembling at my sides.
I felt his eyes on me the entire time.
Just as I reache the counter, Jody shouts from the kitchen, “Lena! The guy at table eight asked for you by name!”
I turn, and Zeke is watching me, expression unreadable. He leans forward, voice low. “We need to talk. And this time, you don’t get to disappear.”