Chapter 10 — The Taste That Lingers
Hazel stirred cream into a latte that wasn't hers. She'd been standing at the wrong counter for nearly a minute before realizing it.
"Hazel?" her co-worker called, frowning. "You alright?"
"Yeah. Sorry." She blinked herself back into the moment, handed the wrong drink to the wrong customer, and forced a smile. "Didn't sleep."
The lie tasted bitter.
Because the truth was worse.
She hadn't slept. Not because she was haunted, but because she was still there. Still in that bed, in his arms, replaying every breath, every kiss, every broken piece of herself that he'd found and claimed.
The scent of Henry lingered on her skin long after the shower. She'd scrubbed until her fingertips pruned. It hadn't helped.
She wasn't stained by his cologne—she was marked by his absence.
She hadn't heard from him. Not since she left his apartment at sunrise.
No texts. No calls. No cruel "had fun" message that would've at least built a wall between them.
Just silence.
Which was worse.
Because it meant waiting. Wondering.
Wanting.
And she hated that part of herself now—the part that had liked the ache of him. That had wrapped her legs around a stranger and found more truth there than in months of Samuel's soft kisses and quiet apologies.
The bell above the coffee shop door jingled.
Hazel didn't turn. Just kept wiping down the counter, heart thudding against her ribs.
But then she felt it—like gravity bending in his direction.
A shadow.
A scent.
She turned.
And there he was.
Henry stood in black slacks and a dark open-collared shirt, hair still damp like he'd walked through rain or sweat or dreams. Sunglasses hooked onto his shirt, unreadable eyes fixed on her.
He didn't smile.
He didn't need to.
Their eyes locked—and just like that, she was back in his bed. His hands on her thighs. His mouth claiming every broken part of her.
Hazel dropped the rag.
He stepped forward, slow and certain, like a man who already knew what she'd dreamt about.
"I'll have whatever she recommends," he said smoothly.
Her hands trembled as she grabbed a cup.
"You shouldn't be here," she murmured.
"And yet," he replied, voice low, "here I am."
She made the drink on autopilot, every nerve screaming under her skin. He watched her the entire time, unblinking. Devouring.
When she passed him the cup, their fingers brushed—nothing but static and skin—and she flinched like it burned.
He leaned in, his voice a shadow in her ear. "You didn't sleep."
Her lips parted. "No."
"Me neither."
He took the drink. No thank-you. Just silence.
And he left.
Just like that.
No permission. No apology.
That night at dinner, Samuel noticed.
"You're quiet," he said, setting down his fork. "Everything okay?"
She looked up from her plate like she'd been underwater. "Yeah. Just tired."
"Still?"
"Long shift."
He studied her. The crease between his brows deepened.
"You've been different lately."
Hazel offered a smile, but it came too quickly—like a performance she didn't rehearse well enough. "You're imagining things."
"I don't think I am."
She reached for his hand across the table and laced their fingers together. It felt strange. Loose. Like wearing someone else's clothes.
He squeezed her hand.
She didn't squeeze back.
Her body was here—but her mind…
Her mind was on the fifth floor of Henry's penthouse, legs around his waist, moaning his name like it had always been hers to say.
And her heart?
Her heart wasn't hers at all anymore.
It was still in his mouth.