Five Hargreeve $

The café was already closing when he reappeared. It wasn't the usual time. It was late. Too late. The lights inside were already dimmed, the chairs stacked on the tables, the "Closed" sign hanging crooked on the door. But he came in anyway. The bell rang once, like a warning no one else heard. She, who had her back to him cleaning the espresso machine, felt a chill run down her neck before she even saw him. She didn't need to turn around to know who he was. The air felt different when he arrived: heavier, stiller, as if the oxygen itself were afraid of him. She turned off the machine with trembling fingers and turned slowly. There he was. Standing in the middle of the empty café, his hands in the pockets of his long black coat, staring at her. He wasn't smiling this time. There was no mask of courtesy. Only those dark eyes that seemed to pierce her skin, her bones, reaching straight to the thought she was trying to hide: I want to go home. "You haven't answered my messages," he said softly. It wasn't a question. It was a reproach wrapped in black velvet. Valeria swallowed. She had seen the three messages that had arrived last night at 3:17 a.m. "I don't have your number saved," she lied, although they both knew it was useless. He took a step forward. Then another. He wasn't in a hurry. He never was. "I saw you talking to the delivery guy today," he murmured, almost tenderly. "You were laughing. Laughing loudly." He paused, as if reliving the moment in his head and it hurt. "Do you know how long it's been since I've seen you laugh like that with me?" She stepped back until she bumped into the bar. The edge dug into her waist. "It's not... it's not what you think." He tilted his head, studying her as if she were a painting, and smiled...