The café smelled of cardamom, espresso, and something freshly baked — the kind of warmth that reminded Catherine of quieter mornings, the kind that no longer existed. The kind that belonged to another version of her life. Before the bruises. Before the betrayals.
She sat silently in the corner booth, her shoulders wrapped in Collin's coat. It hung heavy but warm, still clinging to the faint scent of cedar and cold night air. Her fingers gripped the fabric like a lifeline, trembling not from the temperature, but from the slow unraveling of her nerves.
Collin sat across from her, watching with a quiet stillness. He didn't speak, didn't try to fill the silence with empty words. He just... sat. Present. Unassuming.
Catherine exhaled slowly and glanced toward the counter.
"Do you want anything?" Collin asked, voice low, careful. "Something warm?"
She shook her head. "No, thank you. I don't think I could taste anything right now."
He nodded, not pressing her.
A beat passed.
The buzz of the coffee machines, soft music playing overhead, and the gentle clatter of cups created a bubble of calm around them — one Catherine wasn't sure she deserved, but needed.
Collin leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on the edge of the table. "You don't have to talk, Catherine. Not if you're not ready."
She gave him a tight-lipped smile. "Talking won't undo anything."
"No," he agreed. "But sometimes it helps."
She didn't answer. She couldn't.
Instead, she stared at the cupcake he'd placed in front of her — heart-shaped, with soft pink frosting and a single gold leaf. Clearly a Valentine's Day leftover from the counter. A small gesture. A reminder that sweetness still existed somewhere.
But she didn't touch it.
Her gaze drifted to the window, where rain misted the glass and turned streetlights into blurred halos.
Then her phone buzzed.
She flinched.
Collin noticed the way her body tensed, how her hand hovered above the phone like it might burn her.
"Want me to—"
"I've got it," she said quickly, and picked it up.
One notification.Unknown number.One image.
She tapped it without thinking — and immediately regretted it.
The screen filled with the image of Rose — her hair tousled, her mouth pressed hungrily against Maverick's. His hands were on her hips, dragging her close, their bodies tangled in something unmistakably raw and unapologetic.
They weren't just kissing.
They were devouring each other.
A second message followed.
He was never yours to begin with.
Catherine's blood turned to ice.
She stared at the image, her heart pounding like war drums in her chest. Her grip on the phone loosened, and the device dropped softly onto the table.
Collin's eyes had flicked down at just the right — or wrong — moment.
He saw it.
The image. The message. And the look on her face.
Catherine let out a strangled breath and whispered, as if to no one, "Maverick… how could you…"
Her voice cracked, barely more than air, but Collin heard it.
He didn't speak. Not yet. He waited.
Catherine blinked fast, trying to keep her composure, but her body betrayed her. Her hands trembled. Her eyes glossed over.
"I thought I'd already lost him," she said quietly, her voice breaking. "But seeing that… it's like losing him all over again. Except this time, I feel stupid for ever believing he was mine to begin with."
Collin's hand moved slightly across the table but paused before reaching her. He seemed to know she might not want to be touched — not right now.
"I'm sorry you had to see that," he said simply. "No one should be blindsided like that."
Catherine gave a hollow laugh. "I should've seen it coming. Maybe I did. Maybe I just kept pretending he'd come back. That some part of the old Maverick was still in there."
She rubbed her eyes, smudging her eyeliner.
Then she exhaled, long and slow. "I'm really tired, Collin."
He nodded. "It's almost four in the morning. You should get some rest."
She looked up, startled by the time. The exhaustion hit her like a wave — mental, emotional, and physical.
"I'll call a cab," she said weakly.
"I'll take you," Collin offered.
She blinked. "You don't have to—"
"I know," he said gently. "But I want to. You shouldn't go home alone tonight."
There was a long pause before she nodded.
"Okay."
Collin stood and helped her into her coat, then retrieved his from the hook by the door. Outside, the rain had eased into a soft drizzle, blurring streetlights and storefronts into streaks of silver and gold.
He opened the passenger door for her and waited until she slid inside, then quietly shut it behind her. The car smelled faintly of leather and something clean — unfamiliar, but not unpleasant.
As they pulled out of the café's parking lot, the silence between them settled like fog. Not awkward, not forced. Just… stillness.
Catherine leaned her head against the window. The world outside slipped by in a blur of glowing signs, darkened buildings, and half-asleep streets.
"How far is your place?" Collin asked quietly.
"About twenty minutes. Maybe longer with the rain," she murmured, already sounding distant.
He nodded. "Plenty of time, then."
They didn't speak much after that.
The city unfolded around them in silence — passing streetlamps casting momentary gold across her face, the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers filling the space between heartbeats.
Catherine watched the droplets race down the glass, eyes following their path like they held answers to questions she hadn't dared ask.
She didn't realize how tired she was.
Not just the kind of tired that settled in her bones — but the kind that came from carrying too much for too long.
The silence stretched.
Collin didn't break it. He didn't fill the air with pity or platitudes. He simply drove — steady hands, steady pace, as if the calm of his presence could hold off the chaos outside.
Catherine blinked slowly, her vision blurring.
She meant to stay awake. Meant to thank him again. Meant to ask him something — she wasn't even sure what. But her eyelids grew heavy.
And then…
Sleep took her.
Softly.
Quietly.
The kind of sleep that only came when your body finally believed — for just a moment — that you were safe.
Collin noticed when her breathing evened out. He glanced sideways and saw her slumped gently against the window, lips parted slightly, the shadows beneath her eyes deeper now in rest.
He turned down the music that had been barely playing. Slowed the car a little more.
Didn't speak.
Didn't move too fast.
Just let her sleep.
The rain whispered against the windshield, and the night stretched around them like a blanket.
By the time he reached her street, the sky was just beginning to hint at morning — that faint blue before the sun even knows it's awake.
He parked near her building and turned off the engine, not wanting to wake her too quickly.
For a moment, he just watched her.
Not in a possessive way. Not in a romantic one either.
Just… quietly.
Like someone seeing a storm survivor finally at rest.