Page 6 of Clay

Jenny’s fumbling with the coffee pot, muttering something, but I don’t hear her. Dylan’s staring back now, his lips parted, eyes wide with the same shock I feel.

His friend leans in, whispering, but I don’t catch it. The diner shrinks, the walls falling away until it’s just us, the air thick with seven years of silence.

I don’t think. I move. My boots thud against the linoleum, each step heavier, my heart slamming against my ribs.

Dylan doesn’t look away, doesn’t flinch, just watches me close the distance. Up close, he’s even more beautiful—those hazel eyes searching mine, a flush creeping up his neck, his hair longer now, longer than it used to be anyway. I want to touch it, see if it’s still as soft as it was when I’d tangle my fingers in it, pulling him close.

The boy’s friend clears his throat, loud and awkward. “Uh, I’m just gonna… bathroom. Yeah.” he slides out of the booth, shooting Dylan a look—worry, maybe?—and bolts toward the back. Smart move.

I don’t ask—just drop into the seat across from Dylan, the vinyl creaking under me.

Dylan’s still staring, and I’m staring back, and it feels like forever stretches out between us.

His coffee’s cold, untouched, his fingers gripping the mug like it’s a lifeline. I get it. I feel it too, like the ground’s shifted under me.

“Dylan,” I say, my voice rough, scraped raw from the road and the years. It’s the first time I’ve said his name out loud since Igot out, and it burns going down, a shot of something strong and bitter.

“Clay,” he answers, soft but steady. His eyes flick over me—my jacket, my hair, the faint bruise on my jaw—and I wonder what he sees. The kid he loved? Or the man I’ve turned into?

I lean forward, elbows on the table, and the words spill out, heavy and sure. “We’ve got some talking to do. Someserioustalking.”

Dylan doesn’t reply right away, just holds my gaze, and I see it—the storm behind his eyes, questions and hurt and maybe something else, something that still pulls at me.

I don’t deserve to ask for anything, not after I walked away, left him to deal with the wreckage.

But he’s here, real and close, and I can’t walk away again.

Not this time…

Chapter 3

Dylan

The diner’s fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a harsh glow across the table where Clay sits, his broad frame filling the booth like he owns it.

I can’t stop staring at him—those green eyes, sharp and unreadable, the faint bruise blooming along his jaw, the way his leather jacket stretches over his shoulders.

He’s different, harder-edged, but still Clay.

Still the guy who stole my heart at nineteen and then shattered it. The air between us crackles with tension, thick and heavy, like a storm about to break.

I used to call him Daddy… and it’s all coming back to me. Every touch. Every lick. Every rough fuck, every caring cuddle, and all those nights under the stars together.

Shit. I can’t do this. Can I?

My coffee’s gone cold, the bagel crumbs scattered on my plate forgotten, and Chris’s absence leaves me alone with Clay, no buffer to soften the weight of this moment.

Clay just said we’ve got serious talking to do, and the words hang there, daring me to respond.

I want to—God, I want to—but my throat’s tight, clogged with years of questions and hurt.

I force myself to breathe, to meet his gaze, but the longer I look, the more the old anger bubbles up, hot and sharp. It’s been simmering all this time, buried under city noise and new beginnings, but seeing him here, now, rips the lid off.

“Why?” The word slips out before I can stop it, raw and jagged. His brow furrows, but I don’t give him a chance to ask what I mean. “Why did you cut me off, Clay? When you went to prison, you just… vanished. No letters, no calls, nothing. I waited for you, you know that? I sat by the phone for weeks, thinking you’d reach out, explain, something. And you didn’t. You left me with nothing but rumors and a hole where you used to be.”

My voice cracks, and I hate it—hate how vulnerable I sound, how the hurt still feels fresh after all this time.

I clench my fists under the table, nails digging into my palms, trying to hold myself together.

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