I couldn't look back. I told myself that. I told myself it was the only way to survive the walk to my car, that if I kept my eyes forward and my hands on the cart, I could pretend the last ten minutes hadn't happened. That his name wasn't branded somewhere behind my ribs.

The parking lot hit me like a wall. Afternoon heat rippling off the asphalt, the smell of hot tar and something sweet and rotting near the dumpster. A fluorescent light above flickered, buzzing like a trapped fly. I loaded Mira's carrier onto the ground beside the trunk, careful not to jostle her, and she let out a soft coo that barely registered through the roar in my head.

I opened the trunk. The plastic handle of the milk carton was warm from sitting in the cart, and I held it for a second too long, feeling the give of the plastic under my fingers. The avocados rolled against each other in their bag. I reached for them. Routine. Just routine. Put the groceries in the trunk, close the trunk, get in the car, drive home to Luke, to the nursery, to the life I'd built out of obligation and silence.

Except my hands were shaking.

I gripped the milk carton harder, watching my knuckles go white. The tremble didn't stop. It moved up my arms, into my chest, and I had to lean against the car for a second, pressing my forehead to the warm metal of the trunk lid.

What had I done?

I'd given him my name. I'd let him hold my hand in the produce aisle. I'd stood there while he told me he just wanted to touch me, to see if it felt the way he remembered, and I hadn't pulled away. I'd let the heat of his palm sink into my skin like it belonged there.

And I'd walked away. I'd pushed the cart toward the checkout and I hadn't looked back.

But I'd felt him watching me the whole way. I'd felt his eyes on the back of my neck like a hand.

I reached for the avocado bag, my fingers closing around the plastic. One avocado. I didn't even know why I'd grabbed it. I didn't even like avocado. I'd just needed something to hold, something to do with my hands while he stood there looking at me like I was the only woman in the world.

Mira stirred in her carrier. I looked down at her—her tiny face scrunched, her lips pursing in her sleep—and the guilt hit me so hard I almost doubled over. She was three months old. She was nursing at my breast. And I was standing in a parking lot shaking because another man had touched my hand.

"Elena."

The voice came from behind me. Low. Rough. Familiar in a way that made my stomach drop.

I froze. The milk carton was still in my hand. One foot of space between me and the trunk. I didn't turn. I couldn't turn. Because if I turned, I'd see him, and if I saw him, I'd have to decide something I wasn't ready to decide.

But my body had already made the choice. My hips had turned before my head caught up. The milk carton pressed against my chest like a shield as I looked over my shoulder.

Damon stood two cars away. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders broad under his work shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms dark with a tan that spoke of long days in the sun. His dark eyes were fixed on me, unblinking, and there was something in them I couldn't name—something that made my breath catch in my throat.

He didn't move. He just stood there, two cars away, looking at me like he'd been looking at me for weeks.

"I couldn't let you leave without asking," he said.

His voice was quiet. Almost gentle. But it carried across the parking lot, over the buzz of the fluorescent light and the distant hum of traffic, and it landed somewhere in my chest.

I didn't back away.

The milk carton was cold against my ribs. Mira cooed in her carrier, a soft, sleepy sound. The fluorescent light flickered overhead, casting the parking lot in a sickly yellow pulse, and I could smell the tar and the spilled soda and something else—clean and sharp. His scent. It had been in my nose since the dairy aisle, and I hadn't even realized it.

He stepped closer.

One step. The squeak of his sneakers on the hot asphalt. The gap between us narrowed to a car's length, then half of one. He moved like he had all the time in the world, like he wasn't afraid of what I might do, like he already knew I wasn't going anywhere.

"Asking what?" I whispered.

My voice broke on the last syllable. I heard it crack, felt it splinter in my throat, and I hated myself for how small I sounded. How fragile. Like I was already falling apart.

He stopped. Arm's length. Close enough that I could see the dark stubble along his jaw, the line of sweat on his collar, the way his throat moved when he swallowed.

"If I can kiss you," he said.

The words hung in the air between us. The fluorescent light buzzed. A car door slammed somewhere in the distance. Mira shifted in her carrier, a soft whimper escaping her lips, and I felt the sound go through me like a needle.

I should have said no.

I should have said I'm married, I have a daughter, I have a life that doesn't include you. I should have picked up the carrier, shut the trunk, and driven away. I should have done any of the hundred things a woman who loved her husband would do.

But I didn't.

I stood there with the milk carton pressed against my chest, and I looked at him, and I felt the tears prick at my eyes.

The wall I'd built around myself—the years of careful distance, the never letting anyone close, the way I'd learned to smile and nod and pretend I was fine—it was cracking. I could feel it. A hairline fracture running from the base of my skull down through my chest, and he hadn't even touched me yet.

"Elena." His voice was softer now. He said my name like he'd been holding it in his mouth for weeks, like it tasted like something he'd been waiting to swallow. "I've been thinking about you since the dairy aisle. I couldn't stop. I tried. I told myself you were married, that you had a baby, that I had no right."

He took another step. Close enough that I could smell him now—clean and sharp and something underneath, something warm. I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the way they caught the flickering light.

"But I couldn't let you leave without asking," he said. "Because if I did, I'd spend the rest of my life wondering what you would have said."

The tears spilled over. I felt them track down my cheeks, hot and stupid, and I couldn't stop them. I couldn't do anything but stand there with the milk carton in my hand and the taste of his words in my mouth.

"I'm married," I said. The words came out wrong—broken, like I was trying to remind myself of something I'd forgotten.

"I know."

"I have a daughter."

"I know."

"I'm—" My voice cracked again. I pressed my free hand to my mouth, feeling the salt of my tears on my lips. "I'm not the kind of woman who—"

"I know," he said again. And then, softer: "That's why I asked."

The fluorescent light buzzed. Mira whimpered in her carrier, a thin little sound that cut through the thick air between us. I looked down at her—her tiny fists, her scrunched face, the way she rooted in her sleep, searching for milk—and I felt the weight of everything I was about to betray.

And I still didn't back away.

Damon's hand came up. Slow. Deliberate. Like he was giving me every chance to stop him. His callused fingers brushed my jaw, so light I could barely feel them, and he tilted my face up until I was looking at him.

"I couldn't let you leave," he said. "Not without knowing."

His thumb traced the line of my cheekbone, catching a tear. He didn't wipe it away. He just held it there, like he was memorizing the shape of my face, the feel of my skin under his hand.

The milk carton slipped from my fingers.

It hit the asphalt with a dull thud, rolling against my foot, and I didn't pick it up. I couldn't. My hands were shaking too hard, and all I could do was stand there, pinned in place by his hand on my jaw and the question hanging in the air between us.

He was waiting. I could see it in his eyes. Waiting for me to say yes, or waiting for me to say no—I couldn't tell. Maybe he was waiting for both. Maybe he didn't know which one he wanted either.

Mira whimpered again. Louder this time. The sound of a baby waking up, hungry, needing her mother. I felt the milk let down in my breasts, a hot ache that had nothing to do with desire, and I knew I had to go.

But I couldn't move.

I couldn't move, and I couldn't speak, and I couldn't look away from his dark eyes, and I couldn't stop the tears from falling, and I couldn't tell him the truth—that I didn't know what I wanted, that I'd been so empty for so long that I'd forgotten what it felt like to be full, that his hand on my jaw was the first thing in years that had made me feel real.

"Elena," he said. Just my name. Just the sound of it in his mouth, and it was enough to break something inside me.

I opened my mouth to speak. I don't know what I was going to say. Maybe yes. Maybe no. Maybe nothing at all.

But before the words could come, Mira cried out—a sharp, hungry wail that cut through the buzzing air like a knife—and I flinched, pulling back from his hand, my own hands flying to the carrier.

"I have to go," I said. My voice was a stranger's. Hoarse. Raw. "I have to—she's hungry, I have to—"

I crouched down, fumbling with the carrier straps, my fingers clumsy and shaking. I could feel him watching me. I could feel his eyes on the back of my neck, and I knew—I knew—that if I looked up, I'd see him still standing there, still waiting, still asking without words.

I didn't look up.

I picked up the carrier, Mira's wails filling the parking lot, and I set it in the trunk. I slammed the lid. I walked to the driver's side. I opened the door. I got in. I started the engine.

And as I pulled out of the parking lot, I saw him in the rearview mirror—still standing where I'd left him, hands in his pockets, dark eyes fixed on my taillights as I drove away.

I didn't look back.

I couldn't. Because if I looked back, I knew I'd want to follow.

I drove. I don't remember the first two blocks. Just the feel of my hands on the wheel, white-knuckled, and Mira's wailing filling the car like it was the only real thing left in the world. The milk was soaking through my bra, through my shirt, two dark crescents spreading across the cotton. The ache was a physical thing, hot and urgent, and every cry from the carrier twisted it deeper.

I pulled into the first gas station I saw. Not the one near home. A stranger's gas station, a place I'd never been, with a cracked concrete pad and a sign that buzzed like it was dying. I killed the engine and sat there for a second, my forehead against the steering wheel, listening to Mira scream.

"I know," I whispered. "I know, baby. Mama's here."

My hands were still shaking when I unclipped her from the carrier. She was red-faced, fists balled, that furious newborn cry that said the world was ending and only milk could save it. I fumbled with my shirt, popped the clasp of my nursing bra one-handed, and she latched on like she'd been waiting her whole three months for this exact moment.

The relief hit me in a wave. The ache in my breasts easing, the hot pull of her mouth, the way her tiny body relaxed against mine. I leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes, and for a second—just a second—I let myself breathe.

Then I opened my eyes and looked at the rearview mirror.

The parking lot behind me was empty. Just the gas station, the pumps, a guy in a truck filling up, a woman walking her dog along the shoulder of the road. No dark-eyed man standing in the middle of the asphalt with his hands in his pockets.

Of course not. He was back at the grocery store. Or he'd driven away. Or he was standing in the dairy aisle right now, staring at the milk like it held the answer to a question he hadn't asked yet.

I didn't know. And the not knowing was worse than the knowing.

Mira's mouth worked against me, her tiny hand pressed flat against my chest, and I looked down at her—at the dark lashes against her cheeks, the soft down on her head, the way her fingers curled and uncurled like she was dreaming of something. She was so small. So new. And I was sitting in a stranger's parking lot, leaking milk and shaking because another man had asked to kiss me.

The guilt came back, hotter this time. It sat in my stomach like a stone I'd swallowed, and I couldn't cough it up.

Luke. I thought of Luke. The way he looked at me across the dinner table, the way he'd held me in the dark after it had gone wrong, the way he'd said my name like it hurt him to say it. He was a good man. He was a good father. He'd never raised his voice, never pushed, never made me feel like what happened in our bed was my fault—even though we both knew it was. My body. My fault. The way I was made.

And I was sitting here, three months after giving birth to his daughter, shaking because a stranger with dark eyes and rough hands had touched my jaw.

Mira unlatched, milk dribbling down her chin, and let out a soft, satisfied sigh. I switched her to the other side, wincing at the initial sting of the let-down, and she latched on again with the same desperate urgency.

I looked at the rearview mirror again.

Still empty. Of course it was still empty. He wasn't going to follow me. He wasn't going to show up at the gas station like some kind of movie hero, ready to sweep me off my feet. He was a construction foreman who'd seen a pretty woman in the dairy aisle and decided to take a chance. That was all. That was everything.

Except it wasn't. I knew it wasn't. Because when he'd said my name, when he'd said Elena like it was something he'd been carrying in his mouth for weeks, I'd felt it. I'd felt it in my chest, in my stomach, in the space between my legs that had been dead for so long I'd forgotten it existed.

And that was the part I couldn't tell Luke. That was the part I couldn't tell anyone.

I'd felt alive.

Mira finished, her mouth going slack, milk pooling at the corner of her lips. I wiped it with my thumb, and she made a small, contented sound, her eyes already drifting closed. I held her against my shoulder, patting her back, feeling the tiny rhythm of her breathing against my neck.

The gas station hummed. A car pulled in, tires crunching on the gravel. The guy in the truck finished filling up and drove away, his taillights disappearing down the road.

And I sat there, in the driver's seat of my own car, with my daughter in my arms and my shirt still unclasped, and I thought about what it would feel like to be kissed.

Really kissed. Not the careful, apologetic press of Luke's lips against mine, the one that always felt like he was asking permission he didn't think he deserved. But a real kiss. A kiss with teeth and tongue and heat, a kiss that took and gave and didn't apologize.

I'd never had a kiss like that. Not once in my whole life.

The thought made me feel sick. And hungry. Both at once, a strange, vertiginous mix that left me gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping me upright.

Mira burped, a tiny, milky sound, and settled against my shoulder. I closed my eyes and let myself have one more second—one more second of not being the woman who'd almost let a stranger kiss her in a parking lot.

Then I opened my eyes, re-clasped my bra, fixed my shirt, and laid her back in the carrier.

She didn't wake. She just sighed in her sleep, her lips pursing, and I felt the ache in my chest shift into something softer. Something that was almost love, almost enough.

I started the engine. I pulled out of the gas station. I drove home.

The whole way, I didn't look at the rearview mirror. Not once. Because I knew if I did, I'd see the empty road behind me, and I'd have to admit that he wasn't there. That he'd never been there. That the whole thing—the dairy aisle, the produce section, the parking lot—had been a fever dream I'd woken from alone.

But I could still feel his hand on my jaw. I could still feel the calluses on his fingers, the warmth of his palm, the way he'd tilted my face up like I was something precious.

I could still feel it.

And I knew, with a certainty that sat in my bones like cold water, that I would see him again.

The house was quiet when I pulled into the driveway. Luke's car wasn't there—he was still at work, or maybe he'd stopped for groceries, or maybe he was just late. The windows were dark, the porch light off, and the whole place looked like it was holding its breath.

I carried Mira inside. The nursery was warm, the nightlight casting its amber glow across the crib, and I laid her down with a care I didn't feel. My hands were steady now, even if my heart wasn't. I stood over her for a long moment, watching her sleep, watching the rise and fall of her tiny chest, and I tried to remember who I was before all of this.

I couldn't.

The kitchen was dark. I didn't turn on the light. I just stood at the counter, the grocery bags still on the floor where I'd dropped them, and I looked at the avocado sitting on the counter. One avocado. I didn't even like avocado.

I picked it up. It was warm from the car, heavy in my hand. I held it for a long moment, feeling the give of the skin, the weight of it, and I thought about how I'd grabbed it without thinking. Just something to hold. Something to do with my hands while he stood there looking at me like I was the only woman in the world.

The front door opened. Luke's voice, tired and familiar, called out from the hallway.

"Elena?"

I set the avocado down. I wiped my hands on my jeans. I took a breath, and I let the wall build itself back up around me—brick by brick, the way I'd done a thousand times before.

"In here," I said.

And I smiled when he came in, and I let him kiss my cheek, and I asked him about his day, and I didn't say a word about the man in the parking lot.

I didn't say a word about any of it.

But the avocado sat on the counter all night, and I couldn't stop looking at it.