Ian didn't go home right away.
He drove aimlessly for nearly an hour, the cafe confrontation looping over and over in his mind like a corrupted film reel. Harper's voice. Jacob's posture. The way they'd looked at him—not like someone they feared, but like someone they'd already dismissed.
"If I see you again, I'll go to the police."
"We're not bluffing."
"You made a mistake."
The words clanged in his skull. Cold. Detached. Final.
But they didn't understand.
She didn't understand.
When he finally stepped into his apartment, the silence was oppressive. The door clicked shut behind him like a vault sealing.
He didn't bother turning on the overhead light.
The soft orange glow of a desk lamp cast just enough illumination over the far wall—his wall.
The board.
A large cork panel, meticulously arranged with photos of Harper.
Some candid. Some printed from old posts. Some clearly taken from outside her house—on the porch, on walks, seated on her back deck with a book in hand.
Every image had a small handwritten note beneath it:
Thursday morning. White mug. Calm.
Rainy day. Gray sweater. She looked lonely.
Laughing. With the girl. Not Jacob.
Below the board, in a glass display case, sat the items.
The scarf, folded neatly. The blue earrings, polished and placed on black velvet. A pressed sprig of lavender from her garden. One of her handwritten workshop notes—barely a paragraph, but written in her looping, earnest script.
He opened the case carefully, reverently.
His fingers hovered above the scarf, then touched it—briefly. He closed his eyes and inhaled.
"Why can't she see?" he whispered. "I've been here the whole time."
He sat down hard in the desk chair, palms pressed to his temples. His breathing turned shallow.
"She smiled at me," he said to the empty room. "She wanted me to notice her. She always did. That first day at the office… the way she looked up from her screen. That was real."
His voice was rising now.
"She's lying to herself. Letting him get in the way. He doesn't understand her like I do. He never did."
He turned in the chair and stared at the board.
One photo was more recent—a candid Harper hadn't seen yet. Her head tilted back in laughter at something Jacob had said.
Ian's smile twisted.
"She should've known by now. She should've seen all the signs. The tea. The messages. The walks. I was listening. I was building something for us. Every word I said to her was true."
He stood, pacing now.
"I told her I wanted to know her. Really know her. And she looked me in the eyes and lied. She said she didn't feel it. She said it was inappropriate."
He stopped in front of the case.
"She thinks this is over."
His voice was almost calm now. Soft. Certain.
"She thinks she can embarrass me. Push me out of her life like I don't matter."
He leaned closer to the glass.
"But I matter."
His finger tapped the case gently, once.
"Soon, she'll understand."