Page 66 of This Life of Mine

When I walked up to Lina, something inside me shifted off its axis. It made no fucking sense.

The second she looked up at me and smiled—like she was genuinely happy to see me—my chest tightened so hard it caught me off guard. My pulse kicked unevenly against my ribs.

Jesus Christ. Am I nervous?

How the hell does she have the power to make me nervous?

I can’t remember the last time I felt anything close to this. Maybe junior high, back when talking to girls felt like a life-or-death negotiation.

I don’t like it, nor understand it.

The line behind me thankfully starts growing, people shifting impatiently, and it gives me the perfect excuse to get the hell away from the counter before I say something stupid.

I gave Val my order, grabbed my drink, and retreated before whatever strange thing was happening inside my body could get worse.

I claim a corner table with my laptop, a quad espresso that disappears in record time, and the strawberry Mexican concha I’ve apparently developed an unhealthy attachment to. I hope the caffeine is enough to erase whatever the hell this feeling is.

The shop buzzes around me. Warm. Crowded and alive.

The espresso machine hisses. Someone laughs near the register. Music hums softly through the speakers while the scent of coffee beans, sugar, and fresh bread wraps around the entire place.

And despite the noise, despite the people, despite the work waiting for me on my laptop—I’m still aware of her.

Lina is behind the counter, moving slower than usual but no less capable. She hands out cinnamon rolls, answers questions, and steps in to help Kay when the espresso line bottlenecks.

Today is busier than most days. From what I hear people talking about, social media has turned this into something bigger than curiosity. This is the town showing up.

Lines snake out the door for hours. Shelves empty. Tables get cleared. People buy books they’ve already read, pastries they don’t need, merch they’ll probably gift to make a point.

This place matters. And so does she.

“I’m good,” she tells them calmly.

They nod and wish the business well.

From the outside, she looks fine. That’s what everyone else sees as they crowd the bakery—Lina moving through the space like she owns it, steady and composed, managing smiles and conversations with ease.

Were I someone unaware, I might also accept it, but I possess greater awareness through years of training.

I see the way she favors one side when she turns. The careful way she reaches. The microsecond pause before she lifts something heavy. I see the faint discoloration at her wrist whenher sleeve shifts, the scrape at her collarbone that she didn’t get to hide completely.

Something bitter unfurls inside me.

It takes every ounce of self-control not to leave. Not to get in my car and drive to that fucking jail—find Cole and remind him—very clearly—what happens when men like him forget their place in the world.

I understand precisely how simple it would be.

I’ve crossed paths with far worse.

Men convinced violence made them untouchable. Men who confused brutality with strength.

I possess the skill to strip that illusion away, to show them the ugly truth underneath, to show them what a real monster looks like.

The idea is there—hot and tempting. But I don’t move. Because this isn’t about my anger. It’s about hers. So I stay where I am. I watch, and I wait.

I let my restraint be the thing that keeps her safe—not my fists, not my rage. I let her see that I can hold the line without crossing it. That I can choose restraint when aggression would be easier.

Because she’s already lived with men who let their worst impulses lead, because what she deserves now is someone who refuses to.