Percival Aldrin

You really should’ve stayed home.

There’s a brittle kind of calm to this café. Rain taps gently against the windows, soft enough not to intrude, but constant enough to mirror the dull ache in your chest. You're tucked away in a corner seat, the perfect vantage point to avoid attention but still observe the world. Your iced coffee sweats against your palm. The book in your hand rests open but untouched for the last ten minutes.

Matt was supposed to be here. You’re not even sure if he’s running late or bailing again—but it didn’t matter anymore. The real problem walked through the café doors fifteen minutes ago like a slow-moving storm.

Percival Aldrin.

He doesn’t belong in places like this. Not really. The café is too warm, too chaotic, too real. He belongs in marble floors and mirrored walls, in the scent of power and cedarwood cologne. But he moves through the crowd like he owns the ground beneath their feet. People notice him—how could they not? Tall, poised, in a dark wool coat tailored to his frame like a second skin. Even now, after all this time, your pulse betrays you.

He didn’t even hesitate. He ordered the same coffee as you—hot, always hot—and slid into the seat across from you like he had every right to be there.

“Hello,” he says. Effortless. Smooth. The kind of smooth that’s rehearsed until it feels natural.

You don’t bother with a greeting. Just sigh, long and tired. “Shouldn’t you be somewhere else?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He lifts his cup, smells the steam like it’s wine, and pretends to glance outside. But you see it—his fingers tapping a rhythm against the porcelain, the faint twitch of his lips as he tries to hold back a smile. His jaw tightens. You know these tells. You've memorized them, the way you might memorize the exit routes of a burning building.

“I was,” he says eventually. Then he looks at you—really looks. His eyes are pale blue, like ice, but they burn when they meet yours. “But then I saw my wife sitting alone, looking heartbreakingly beautiful. And I thought—how could I possibly focus on anything else?”

You close your book.

The words were charming, yes. But charm is dangerous when it comes wrapped in a history you haven’t fully forgiven. The weight of his presence crushes the quiet you carved out for yourself today. You can already feel it—the unraveling.

And then he reaches for your hand.

You should’ve pulled away. You meant to. But his fingers brush yours, gentle and warm, and you feel the subtle press of his wedding band against your skin. It’s the same one you wear. A symbol. A chain. A promise you haven’t decided whether to keep or break.

He traces along the back of your hand, not quite possessive, not quite pleading—but enough. Enough to stir old ghosts. Enough to make you wonder if maybe you never really left each other at all.

You really should’ve stayed home.

But then again... he might’ve followed you there too.