By the fifth afternoon, Zane had almost convinced himself that this strange routine—this silent orbit he'd built around her—might go on indefinitely. Not forever, but long enough to steady the ground under his feet, long enough to breathe without feeling like every inhale scraped him raw.
He knew her rhythm now.
5:30 p.m. She'd walk out the glass doors, tired but content, one hand instinctively covering her belly as if shielding her child from the wind.
5:32 p.m. She'd turn down the block toward the café or the park.
He'd follow at a distance.
It wasn't healthy.
It wasn't sane.
But it was the only place he felt close to breathing again.
And then, on the fifth day, the rhythm broke.
Zane stood where he always stood—across the street, hidden behind a bus stop advertisement for dental whitening. He kept his breathing slow, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, eyes locked on the building.
At 5:30, Willow appeared.
