Page 137 of Before You Fell

The owner leads us to a booth near the back, where sunlight falls across the table and the window looks out onto the quiet street. I slide in on one side. Phoenix takes the seat across from me and sets his sunglasses on the table.

Menus land between us with coffee arriving soon after.

I wrap both hands around my mug and take a sip.

Real coffee.

Not the rehab shit, which always tasted as if it had been filtered through old socks.

A sound slips out of me before I can stop it, causing Phoenix’s eyes to meet mine.

The second he hears it, I know exactly where his mind goes.

“Don’t,” I warn.

His mouth curves. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to. I can hear your brain unzipping its pants from here.”

His grin turns slow and filthy, as his gaze drops to my lips for a moment before lifting back to mine.

“So you did miss me.”

There he is. That cocky dickhead, already making this about himself.

I lean back against the booth. “I missed coffee.”

He lets out a quiet laugh and looks back down at the menu. “What are you going to order?”

Before I can answer, he lifts his head again.

His eyes move over my face, slow enough to make me feel every inch of it, before stopping at my mouth.

It’s only for a second. But it is enough to send my pulse tripping over its own feet.

I stare at him, confused. The owner appears beside the table before I can make the terrible decision to ask him why the fuck he keeps doing that.

I order eggs and toast.

Phoenix orders pancakes and bacon.

“You still eat like you are fourteen and unsupervised,” I say once the owner walks away.

“I was fourteen and unsupervised.”

I shake my head, smiling into my coffee despite myself.

He reaches for the sugar and tears open a packet with his teeth. The gesture is so familiar it catches me off guard. We used to sit in diners after school and do exactly this, sharing fries, stealing bites, and arguing over songs while he stirred sugar into his milkshake.

Once our food arrives, the conversation starts to loosen.

Phoenix tells me about the recent tour in pieces, most of which sound more like grievances than actual updates.

“Damon went to the label because I kept leaving the after-parties early,” he says, cutting into his pancakes.

That catches my attention. “Wait, you left early?”

He doesn’t answer right away; he just shoves a piece of pancake into his mouth. “Cruz had two women get into a fight over him in a greenroom.”