Seraphina’s POV
The little girl’s chubby arms around my waist. Her sticky face pressed against my stomach. That word—*Mama*—echoing in my ears.
I couldn’t shake it.
Back at Margaret’s place, I went through the motions. Helped set up for her birthday dinner. Smiled at the right tis. Laughed when everyone else did. But my mind kept drifting back to that street corner, to those innocent eyes looking up at with such certainty.
"Sera, honey, you’re burning the garlic bread."
Margaret’s voice snapped back. Smoke curled up from the oven.
"Shit!" I yanked the tray out, nearly dropping it. The bread was charcoal black.
Margaret took the tray from my hands, her eyes soft with concern. "What’s going on with you tonight?"
"Nothing. Sorry. I’ll make another batch."
"We have plenty of food." She set the ruined bread aside. "Talk to ."
"I’m fine. Really." I forced a smile. "Just tired from the drive."
She didn’t look convinced, but she let it go. For now.
Dinner was loud and chaotic in the best way. Margaret’s friends filled her dining room with laughter and wine and terrible dad jokes. I sat at the corner of the table, picking at my pasta, trying to be present.
"So Sera," one of Margaret’s book club friends—Linda? Lydia?—leaned toward . "Margaret says you’re a professional boxer. That must be so glamorous."
"It has its monts."
"Do you travel a lot?"
"Yeah. Constantly."
"That sounds exhausting." She took a sip of wine. "Do you ever think about settling down? Starting a family?"
The pasta turned to cent in my mouth. I forced myself to swallow.
"Linda," Margaret cut in smoothly. "Sera’s only twenty-six. Plenty of ti for all that."
"Oh, I know! I just ant—" Linda backpedaled. "My daughter’s your age and she’s already talking about freezing her eggs. These young won today, so practical about these things."
I excused myself to the bathroom. Locked the door. Stared at my reflection.
*Mama.*
That little girl’s face swam in my vision. I gripped the edge of the sink until my knuckles went white.
Get it together, Seraphina.
After we cut the cake and sang Happy Birthday, I started gathering my things.
"Where do you think you’re going?" Margaret materialized in front of the door, arms crossed.
"Ho. It’s getting late."
"Stay." It wasn’t a request. "The guest room’s all made up."
"Margaret, I can’t—"
"You’re distracted. You nearly burned down my kitchen. You almost gave yourself second-degree burns." She stepped closer, her voice dropping. "You think I’m letting you drive two hours in this state?"
"I’m fine to drive."
"You’re really not." She raised one finger when I opened my mouth to argue. "One night. That’s all I’m asking. Stay. Let take care of you for once."
Sothing in her voice—the tenderness beneath the command—made my defenses crumble. Maybe I was more tired than I thought.
"Fine." The word ca out defeated. "But I’m leaving first thing Saturday morning. I have a match Monday. I need to get back and practice."
Margaret’s whole face softened with relief. "Perfect. I’ll make pancakes."
---
Saturday morning ca too bright and too early, sunlight stabbing through the curtains like an accusation. I felt hungover even though I hadn’t touched alcohol. My head pounded. My eyes were swollen. Everything hurt.
Margaret made good on her pancake promise, piling my plate high with blueberry ones—my favorite, because of course she rembered.
"You barely ate dinner last night," she said, sliding the syrup across the table. "Eat."
I managed half a pancake before my stomach twisted into knots. The sweetness made nauseous. "I really need to get going."
"It’s barely nine."
"Traffic." Another lie to add to the growing pile. "And I want to hit the gym when I get back."
Margaret studied for a long mont, her eyes seeing straight through like they always did. Then she sighed, and I knew I’d disappointed her. Again.
"Alright. But drive carefully."
I hugged her goodbye, inhaling her familiar lavender perfu, trying to morize the feeling of being held. "Thank you. For everything."
---
The GPS cheerfully inford that my usual route was closed due to an accident. Estimated delay: three hours.
"Rerouting. Take Highway 7 through downtown."
My hands tightened on the steering wheel until my knuckles cracked. Through downtown. Through *his* part of the city.
No. No way.
I pulled over, heart racing, and tried to find another route. Any other route. But the little blue arrow on the screen kept insisting, insisting, insisting on Highway 7.
"Fuck." I hit the steering wheel. I have already wasted 3 hours on this broken road. Then hit it again. "Fuck!"
What were the chances, really? The city had over a million people. I’d be in my car the whole ti. Just passing through. In and out. He’d never even know I was there.
My hands shook as I rged onto Highway 7.
I cranked up the radio, so mindless pop song about love and heartbreak, because of course that’s what the universe would play right now. I turned it up louder, letting the bass drown out my thoughts.
Traffic slowed to a crawl. Of course. Saturday afternoon in downtown, everyone out for shopping, living their perfect little lives. I drumd my fingers on the wheel, then my palm, then my whole hand, trying to burn off the nervous energy crawling under my skin.
Red light.
I stopped behind a silver sedan, trapped. Waiting. My eyes wandered out of habit, scanning the street.
And across the street, tucked between two buildings—
A restaurant with grass and outdoor seating.
My eyes swept over it automatically. White tables with cheerful yellow umbrellas. People laughing, talking, enjoying their overpriced lattes and their simple Saturday mornings.
And then I saw him.
Ti stopped.
Everything stopped—my breath, my heart, the whole fucking world ground to a halt.
Damien sat at a corner table, his profile to . That jawline I’d traced with my fingers a hundred tis. That hair I’d run my hands through. That posture I knew better than my own. He was laughing at sothing, head thrown back, and the sound probably carried across the street but I couldn’t hear it over the sudden roaring in my ears.
My heart launched into my throat, choking .
Then she leaned into fra.
A woman. Brown hair catching the sunlight like spun gold. Her hand rested on his arm—casual, intimate, familiar. She said sothing, and he smiled.
The world tilted sideways and I forgot how to breathe.
My chest cracked wide open and pain poured in—hot and sharp and suffocating, filling my lungs, my throat, my whole body until I thought I might actually die from it right here in my car at this red light.
*HOOOONK!*
The car behind . The light. Green. It had turned green.
*HONK HONK!*
My hands moved on autopilot—gas pedal, steering wheel, eyes on the road—but I wasn’t in control anymore. I was splitting apart, fragnting into a thousand pieces.
I couldn’t see. Everything blurred together in a watercolor ss—the buildings, the cars, the people on sidewalks, all of it bleeding and running like wet paint. My eyes burned. My vision swam.
Tears. I was crying. When had I started crying?
The tears stread down my face, hot and fast and endless, and I couldn’t stop them, couldn’t even try. One hand on the wheel, the other pressed against my mouth to hold in the sobs that were clawing their way up my throat.
I made it two blocks. Maybe three. I don’t know. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t process. The world was dissolving around .
I yanked the wheel hard, pulling into a side street, and barely got the car into park before my hands started shaking so badly I couldn’t hold the steering wheel anymore.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to physically stop the tears, but it just kept coming.
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