His POV
The coffee was hot—not scalding, but enough to sting.
"Oh—I'm so sorry."
Soft. Clear. Feminine.
A voice that carried calm under pressure. A voice that did not belong to someone dressed like that.
He had noticed the person when they walked in—registered the masculine gait, the loose clothes, the squared shoulders—and dismissed them just as quickly. Another guy passing through.
But that voice proved him wrong.
"Hey—" He looked up ready to reprimand,
and forgot about the coffee spill entirely.
The clothes were wrong. Too large. Deliberate. The posture was practiced—weight balanced, movements economical, precise. Not careless. Not borrowed by accident. This was intention masquerading as ease.
A disguise.
He knew because of the voice.
He watched her mouth close too quickly, watched her spine stiffen. The silence that followed wasn't awkward.
It was defensive.
Interesting.
He smiled—friendly but packed with curiosity and something else that had been simmering for days.
Years, if he was being honest with himself. Because he had seen her before.
Not just noticed— but noticed. From a distance. In passing. In moments where she didn't realize anyone was watching. But more recently, on a screen.
Paused footage. Rewound footage. Enhanced footage.
The hospital board meeting had not been kind to Claudia Montez. The room had been thick with disbelief, anger, and quiet horror. The operating room footage had been dissected frame by frame, the failure laid bare like a cadaver.
Everyone had been watching Claudia.
Everyone but him.
He had been watching the edge of the screen. A figure in the background. Still. Silent. Nearly invisible.
A woman who had been bullied into almost performing a surgery only Claudia was supposed to.
He had been angry when he first saw the video. And remembering it now brought that anger back in full force.
He looked at her as she stood in front of him, pretending to be her brother—Kyle Ramirez.
Kyle, who had once been popular until he wasn't. Kyle, who guarded his sister like a living shield. Kyle, who had never liked him.
The irony wasn't lost on him. If it was Kyle he would have thrown a punch already.
Kayla stood frozen between fight and flight, pretending she hadn't just revealed herself.
"Are you hurt?" she asked.
Not her voice. A practiced imitation. Lower. Guarded.
She winced when his smile widened slightly.
Interesting.
"Not really," he said lightly, testing. "The coffee wasn't that hot. You just gave me a reason to change shirts. I didn't like this one anyway."
Her jaw tightened—barely noticeable, but he noticed.
No smile. No laugh. Just a short, restrained nod.
She stepped back first then retreated to the counter where she began to order.
As she moved away, his eyes followed her—not hungrily, not deliberately. It was instinct. A habit he hadn't realized he'd fallen back into.
He took in the gait. The guarded shoulders. The way she spoke to the woman behind the counter in her brother's voice.
There was something there. Something unresolved.
It itched beneath his skin in a way only answers could fix.
He glanced down at the coffee-stained shirt, then back at her once more before turning toward the door.
She didn't recognize him. That wasn't a surprise. As she never noticed anyone but Kyle.
As he stepped outside, the afternoon sun seemed cool against his skin, he slowed—just slightly—and looked back through the glass.
She was still there.
Focused. Unaware.
Pretending.
He nodded his head as he came to a decision then he adjusted his grip on the cup and continued down the street toward a nearby boutique.
He would stay in this city.