Page 7 of They Are Mine

She’s holding a bottle of something, protein powder, maybe, and she’s laughing too much.

Tucking her hair behind her ear.

Tilting her chin just enough to make sure he sees the delicate slope of her throat.

I shift closer, reaching for a random box of frozen fruit, pretending to read the back.

Don’t.

Don’t smile at her, Noah.

Don’t look at her.

He doesn’t.

Not the way she wants.

His posture stays relaxed but distant, his gaze flicking up only briefly. He nods politely, says something short, something dismissive, then walks away.

No hesitation.

No interest.

Nothing.

I release a slow, steady breath.

She frowns, watching him go, then rolls her eyes and tosses the protein powder into her basket.

I smile.

She thought she had a chance.

She doesn’t understand him at all.

She doesn’t know him.

Not the way I do.

Because how would she know that he plays guitar at open mic night at the bar down the street?

That he always drinks the same thing, never beer always soda in the can, but never more than two?

That he taps his fingers against the bar, mimicking chords when he’s waiting his turn?

That he sometimes closes his eyes when he sings like he’s somewhere else entirely?

I didn’t say hello last week. That would’ve been too much.

I mean, imagine bumping into him again, so soon after our fateful coffee shop encounter?

Too obvious.

Too soon.

But a week later?

That’s just a coincidence.

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