Raymond Carter didn't even like coffee shops.
They were loud. Crowded. Messy. The scent of cinnamon and cheap roasted beans always clung to his jacket after.
He was only here to pick up a quick order for Jasmine — or so he told himself.
The moment the door chimed behind him and he stepped into the warm, buzzing café, his eyes scanned the room instinctively.
And froze.
There she was.
Stephanie Weston.
Sitting by the window, the late afternoon sun highlighting the strands of her hair, fingers wrapped around a cup like she belonged in a painting. Her eyes were bright. She was laughing.
Laughing.
And not with him.
Zayn Maddox leaned in across the table, grinning like he already owned the room — and maybe her attention too.
Raymond's jaw tightened.
He took a slow breath and walked in as if nothing had happened, nodding once toward her when her eyes met his. Calm. Controlled. Distant.
But every step toward the counter felt like walking on glass.
As the barista asked for his name, his mind wasn't on coffee. It was back at that table.
Zayn was leaning closer again. Stephanie looked shy. Then amused. Then thoughtful. That soft expression she wore when she was genuinely interested — Raymond had seen it before.
And now someone else was on the receiving end.
He's just talking.
You have no claim on her.
She deserves someone simple.
Someone who isn't married to a woman he barely speaks to.
Someone who doesn't come with secrets.
Still, it burned.
He clenched his jaw tighter, arms folded as he waited. His fingers tapped the countertop — slowly, then faster.
"Your order, sir," the barista said.
Raymond grabbed the tray, turned, and glanced toward the table again.
Zayn was laughing. Stephanie smiled politely. But something in her eyes — just for a flicker — shifted when she looked up and noticed him still there.
Raymond didn't smile. He didn't wave. He just walked out with the tray and the same perfect posture he always carried.
But inside?
He was anything but composed.
---
Back in his car, he sat in the driver's seat, unmoving.
The tray rested on the seat beside him, forgotten.
He shouldn't care.
He wasn't supposed to care.
But the image of her — laughing at another man's joke — haunted him like a bruise under the skin.
"You're not hers."
And yet, watching her with someone else made him feel like he was slowly being replaced.
By someone with better timing.
By someone who didn't have to keep secrets.