Chapter Eleven — Obsessions Don't Knock
Hazel stood in front of the mirror, brushing her hair like she was trying to tame a storm. Her eyes looked unfamiliar. Softer, yes—but darker too. Like they knew something they shouldn't.
Samuel walked in behind her, towel slung around his waist, eyes scanning her reflection. "You've been somewhere else lately," he said, casual but sharp.
She paused mid-stroke. "Work's just been a lot."
He watched her too long for it to be nothing. "You don't talk about it anymore."
"What's there to talk about?" she said, forcing a shrug. "Same rude customers. Same lukewarm tips."
But her mind was still with him. With Henry's voice in her ear, fingers on her hips, breath warming the curve of her throat.
Samuel kissed her shoulder. She smiled because she had to.
Not because she wanted to.
At work, she kept looking toward the door.
Waiting.
Praying he wouldn't show up.
Hoping he would.
And then he did.
But not in the coffee shop.
In her head.
All. Damn. Day.
He texted her that night.
> Henry: I want to see you.
Hazel: You shouldn't.
Henry: That's not a no.
Hazel: It's a warning.
Henry: I'm tired of pretending you belong to someone else.
Her pulse quickened.
> Hazel: What do you want from me?
The typing bubbles came and went. And then—
> Henry: Everything.
She turned off her phone, face burning. The room was dark. Samuel was asleep beside her. And she lay there in silence, staring at the ceiling like it owed her answers.
Two days passed.
She didn't reply.
She didn't go to him.
But she thought about it. Every minute. Every hour.
And that was worse.
Because it meant part of her already had.
On the third day, he came in.
Late evening. Empty café. Just her behind the counter, restocking cups, pretending to function.
He stood there, silent.
She didn't turn. She didn't need to. She felt him behind her like a fever.
"You're avoiding me," he said, voice low.
"I'm trying to do the right thing."
He stepped closer. She could feel his breath on her neck. "Is that what you want?"
"I don't know what I want," she whispered.
He touched her wrist, soft, reverent. "I do."
Later that night, Hazel stood in the shower too long. The water ran cold. She didn't move.
Because no matter how much she scrubbed, she couldn't wash the thought of him away.
And worse—she didn't want to.
At dinner, Samuel said her name three times before she answered.
"You're slipping," he said, trying to laugh, but there was weight under it. "Seriously, what's going on with you?"
She dropped her fork. "Why does something have to be wrong with me?"
"Because this isn't who you are," he said. "You don't… check out like this."
She stared at him. His soft eyes. His nervous energy. The boy who loved her in all the gentle, ordinary ways.
And she realized she was lying every time she looked at him.
But she didn't know how to stop.
Henry didn't ask her to come over.
Not this time.
He just left his door unlocked.
And waited.
Because some obsessions don't knock.
They let themselves in.