Alina
The bell above the diner door chimes, a tinny, cheerful sound that usually makes me feel safe. Today it feels like a warning.
“Another coffee, Ella, my dear?” Gus asks from his usual stool at the counter. His newspaper is folded neatly beside his plate, the comics page facing up. He’s been here since six a.m., same as every other day.
“Only if you promise to leave some for the rest of the town,” I say, my voice practiced and light. I hoist the glass pot. It feels heavier than usual this morning.
“A man needs his fuel. How else am I supposed to solve this crossword?” He taps a pen against his temple. “Thirteen across. ‘A place of refuge.’ Six letters.”
*Asylum*. The word flashes in my mind before I can stop it. I pour the dark liquid into his mug, careful not to let my hand shake.
“Try ‘harbor’,” I suggest, forcing a smile.
“Harbor! Of course.” He scribbles it in. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Ella. Your parents must be proud.”
The scar in my chest gives a familiar, dull throb. “I’m sure they are.” It’s a non-answer, the kind I’ve perfected over three years.
“You never talk about them,” he says, his gaze softening with grandfatherly concern. “Or where you came from. It’s like you just appeared one day.”
“Not much to tell,” I lie, moving away to wipe down a clean section of the counter. “Small town, not unlike this one. Just needed a change of scenery.”
“Well, Northwood’s glad to have you.”
I offer another small smile and retreat to the kitchen pass-through. The air is thick with the smell of bacon and Gracie’s booming laughter. For a moment, it feels normal. It feels like a life.
Then the bell chimes again.
This time, the sound cuts through the diner’s morning chatter like a knife. The low hum of conversation doesn’t just dip, it dies. Even the sizzle on the grill seems to quiet.
I turn.
He stands in the doorway, and the first thing I notice is how he doesn't belong. It’s not just his clothes, a dark, well-fitting jacket and jeans that cost more than my month’s rent. It’s the way he holds himself. There’s a stillness to him, a coiled energy that sucks all the air out of the room.
My human senses, the ones I’ve sharpened to a razor’s edge over the last three years, are screaming at me. But beneath them, something else stirs. A dormant, animal instinct I’ve kept buried for so long it feels foreign.
*Danger.*
He scans the room, his eyes lingering for a half-second on each patron before moving on. They’re a strange color, a mix of amber and gold, like whiskey held up to a flame. When they finally land on me, it’s not a glance. It’s an assessment.
He walks to the far corner booth, the one with the cracked vinyl that everyone avoids. He moves with a liquid grace that is utterly silent. He doesn’t slide into the booth; he takes possession of it.
“Go on, Ella,” Gracie mutters from the kitchen window, nudging me forward. “Customer’s waiting.”
My feet feel like lead. Every step toward him feels like walking into a trap. I grab a menu and a glass of water, my hands moving on autopilot.
“Welcome to Gracie’s,” I say, my voice sounding thin. I place the water and menu on the table without looking directly at him.
“Thank you,” he says. His voice is deep, a low rumble that vibrates right through the soles of my worn sneakers. I can feel the power in it, quiet but absolute.
I risk a glance up. He is, in a word, beautiful. Not in the polished, boyish way Mason was, but in a raw, elemental way. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw dusted with dark stubble, and black hair that falls over his brow just enough to look untamed. He looks carved from stone and shadow.
He’s not looking at the menu. He’s looking at me.
“I’ll have coffee,” he says, his amber eyes holding mine. “Black.”
“Coming right up.”
I turn and walk back to the counter, feeling his gaze on my back the entire way. It’s not lecherous or appraising. It’s something else. It feels like he’s peeling back my skin, layer by layer, looking for something underneath.
I pour his coffee, my movements stiff. My heart is beating a frantic rhythm against my ribs. It’s not fear, not exactly. It’s the terror of being seen. After three years of living as a ghost, I feel like I’m standing under a spotlight.
I return to the booth and set the mug down. “Anything else for you?”
“Not for now.” He wraps his long fingers around the warm ceramic but doesn’t drink. “You’re new here.”
It’s not a question.
“I’ve been in Northwood for a few years,” I say, my standard reply.
“Three years,” he corrects gently. His eyes flicker with something that looks like knowledge. “You started here in the spring.”
Ice trickles down my spine. “You’ve been here before?”
“No. This is my first time.” He finally takes a sip of coffee, his gaze never wavering. “I’m just good with details.”
My throat is dry. “Are you just passing through?” I ask, hoping the answer is yes.
“Something like that.” He gestures to the seat opposite him. “Sit. You don’t seem busy.”
It’s a command disguised as an invitation. I glance over at Gracie, who gives me a subtle nod. She’s watching him too, her hand resting near the heavy skillet on the stove.
I slide into the booth, the cracked vinyl cool against my legs. I keep my hands clasped in my lap, a nervous habit I thought I’d broken.
“You don’t like questions, do you, Ella?” he asks, his voice soft.
“Is that my name?” I deflect, a trick I learned early on.
He smiles, a slow, magnetic curve of his lips that does nothing to warm his eyes. “It’s the name on your apron. But it doesn’t fit you.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Ella is a quiet name. A soft name,” he says, leaning forward slightly. The air between us crackles. “You might be quiet, but you are not soft. There’s a storm in your eyes.”
A sharp pain, hot and familiar, lances through my chest. The ghost of the bond. It hasn’t flared like this in months. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from wincing.
He notices. Of course he does. His gaze drops to my chest for a fraction of a second, and a frown touches his lips.
“Are you alright?”
“Fine,” I manage to say, my voice tight. “Just a cramp.”
He doesn’t look convinced. “You’re a long way from home.”
“This is my home.” The lie tastes like acid.
“Is it?” he challenges, his voice dropping even lower. “Or is it just a place to hide? A place where no one can smell the truth on you?”
Panic claws its way up my throat. He knows. He can’t know, but he does. He’s one of us.
“I think you’ve had enough coffee,” I say, my voice trembling slightly as I make to stand.
His hand shoots out, not grabbing me, but resting on the table near my arm, blocking my exit. His touch doesn’t connect, but I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. “I’m not trying to scare you.”
“You’re doing a great job of it,” I snap, my carefully constructed composure finally cracking.
Gus looks over from the counter, his brow furrowed with concern. The stranger sees the glance and slowly retracts his hand.
“My apologies,” he says, and he sounds sincere. “My methods can be… direct.”
“What do you want?” I whisper, my hands now gripping the edge of the table.
“I’m looking for people,” he says simply. “People who have been lost. People who have been thrown away.”
My breath catches. Thrown away. The words echo Mason’s rejection, a fresh wound on an old scar.
“I don’t know anyone like that,” I say, my voice flat.
“I think you do.” His amber eyes search mine, and for the first time, I don’t see a predator. I see something else. Understanding. Maybe even empathy.
“My name is Ryker,” he says.
He doesn’t offer a hand to shake. He just gives me his name, like it’s a key, or a weapon. I don't offer mine in return. He already knows it's a lie.
“I have to get back to work,” I say, finally managing to slide out of the booth. My legs are shaking.
“Of course.” He leans back, giving me space. He seems to understand he’s pushed as far as he can for now. “The coffee was excellent.”
He pulls a crisp twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and lays it on the table. For a one-dollar coffee. I open my mouth to protest, but he just gives me a small nod.
“Keep the change, Ella.” He says my fake name with an irony that makes my skin crawl.
He stands, and once again the diner seems to shrink around him. He walks to the door, his steps silent and sure. He doesn’t look back.
The bell chimes as he leaves, and the sound is like a release. The air rushes back into the room, and the low hum of conversation slowly resumes. It’s almost as if he was never there.
But the twenty-dollar bill is still on the table, a stark white rectangle against the worn wood. And the phantom ache in my chest is screaming, louder than it has in three years. My quiet, anonymous life is over. I don’t know who Ryker is, but I know one thing with terrifying certainty.
He’ll be back.
