Chapter 06 (Part 02)

The woman behind the counter—maybe Penny herself—gives me a polite but tight-lipped nod that doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s older, fifty-something, with the kind of weathered face that speaks of long hours and little patience for nonsense. Her apron is stained with coffee and grease, and her hands move with the efficiency of someone who’s been doing this job since before I was born.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t offer to seat me or ask what I’d like to drink. Just nods once and disappears into the kitchen without a word, leaving me standing by the door like an unwelcome guest at a family dinner.

I hover for a moment, unsure whether to sit or bolt. The silence stretches between me and the remaining customer, thick with unspoken tension. I can hear the kitchen sounds—the sizzle of bacon, the clink of dishes, the low murmur of a radio playing something too soft to identify. Normal sounds that should be comforting.

They’re not.

The guy in the booth speaks without looking up from his book.

“You might as well sit,” he says, voice casual but not unkind. “You scared everyone else off.”

His tone is matter-of-fact, like this is just another Tuesday morning in Thornebrook. Like people fleeing the scene the moment I walk in is perfectly normal behavior that doesn’t require explanation or apology.

I raise an eyebrow, trying for casual despite the way my pulse is racing. “That happens a lot around here?”

He shrugs and closes the book slowly, marking his place with a coffee-stained napkin. When he looks up at me, something flickers in his expression—recognition, maybe, or calculation. It’s gone too fast to read, but it leaves me with the uncomfortable feeling that this meeting isn’t as accidental as it seems.

He’s youngish. Maybe twenty-five, though there’s something in his eyes that suggests he’s older than his face lets on. Sandy brown hair that’s slightly messy in the way that looks effortless but probably isn’t. Clean-shaven, with a jaw that speaks of good genetics and regular meals. A face that’s handsome in a quiet, classic kind of way—like he belongs in a black-and-white movie, playing the dependable best friend who gets the girl in the end.

He’s wearing a simple button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and jeans that have seen better days but still fit well. There’s something carefully neutral about his appearance, like he’s trying to blend into the background while still looking put-together.

But it’s his eyes that stop me.

Gold. Like sunlit amber. Like honey held up to the light. Like the eyes that have been haunting my dreams for weeks.

Not… human.

Not fully.

There’s too much awareness in them, too much intelligence. They track my movement with a precision that feels predatory, even when his expression remains friendly. When he looks at me, I have the distinct impression that he’s seeing more than just surface details—like he’s cataloging information I didn’t know I was broadcasting.

“You’re not from here,” he says. It’s not a question. “No kidding.” The sarcasm comes automatically, a defense mechanism against the way he’s looking at me. Like he knows things about me that I don’t know about myself.

He nods toward the seat across from him, the gesture casual but somehow weighted with meaning. “You’re not safe sitting alone.”

The words send a chill down my spine, though I try not to show it. “…And I am if I sit with you?”

He smiles—gentle, but not quite kind. There’s something underneath it, something that makes me think of wolves in sheep’s clothing. “More than you are out there.”

The way he says “out there” makes me glance toward the windows instinctively. The street looks empty, peaceful even. A few cars parked along the curb, their metal surfaces gleaming with morning dew. A dog wandering loose near the bookstore, tail wagging at invisible friends. Nothing threatening.

But his tone suggests otherwise. His tone suggests that appearances can be deceiving, and that safety is relative in a place like this.

I hesitate, weighing my options.

Stay standing and risk whatever he thinks is waiting “out there,” or sit down with a stranger whose eyes glow gold and who talks like he knows secrets about me that I don’t.

Then I slide into the booth.

Because he’s right.

And because I’m sick of being alone.

The vinyl seat is cracked but comfortable, worn smooth by years of use. The table between us is scarred with initials and phone numbers, little marks of lives lived and connections made in this small space. Someone carved “JS + MM 4EVER” into the wood near my left elbow, and I wonder if they’re still together or if forever ended the way it usually does.

I fold my hands under the table to hide how they’re trembling.

The tremor is slight but constant, like I’m running on too much adrenaline and not enough sleep. Which, to be fair, I am. But there’s something else underneath the usual anxiety, something that feels like anticipation. Like my body is preparing for something my brain hasn’t figured out yet.

He leans back against the booth, studying me in a way that’s not exactly rude—but definitely not casual either. There’s purpose in his gaze, intention. More like he’s trying to read something behind my face, some hidden text written in a language only he can understand.

The silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable exactly, but charged. Like the air before a thunderstorm, heavy with potential energy.

“You don’t smell like this town,” he says finally.

That makes me freeze, every muscle in my body going tense.

“…Excuse me?”

The words come out sharper than I intended, but something about the way he said “smell” sets off every alarm bell I have. There’s too much weight in it, too much meaning. Like he’s not talking about perfume or soap but something deeper, more fundamental.

He gives a small smile, like he knows he said something strange and doesn’t care. Like he’s used to people reacting to his words with confusion and discomfort. “Sorry. I mean you don’t seem like you belong here.”

It’s a save, but not a convincing one. The damage is done, the strangeness already hanging in the air between us like smoke. But I let it slide because I’m not sure I want to dig deeper into what he actually meant.

“Yeah, I’ve been picking up on that.” The understatement of the year. From the moment I arrived in Thornebrook, I’ve felt like an alien studying human behavior from the outside. Every interaction feels scripted, every conversation loaded with subtext I can’t decode.

“I’m Elias,” he says, extending his hand across the table. “And you’re Ivy Hayes.”

My pulse spikes, a sudden rush of blood that makes my vision sharpen.

I don’t remember telling anyone my name. Not in town, anyway. Elsie might have mentioned it to people, but the certainty in his voice suggests he knew before this conversation started. Knew before I walked through that door.

He sees the recognition in my eyes, the way my body goes still and alert.

“Elsie’s niece,” he explains gently, withdrawing his hand when I don’t take it. “Word gets around.”

His tone is apologetic but not surprised. Like he expected this reaction and planned for it.

“So this is a gossip town,” I say, voice flat and slightly accusing.

“You’re not wrong.” He shrugs, but there’s something underneath the casual gesture. Something that suggests the gossip in Thornebrook runs deeper than idle chatter about weather and who’s sleeping with whom.

A server approaches—the same woman who disappeared into the kitchen earlier. She moves quietly, almost apologetically, and drops off a chipped mug of black coffee in front of me like it’s been pre-ordered.

She doesn’t look at me directly. Doesn’t ask if I want cream or sugar or if I’d like to see a menu. She barely breathes, moving with the careful precision of someone trying not to attract attention. Then she disappears back into the kitchen without a word, leaving us alone again.

I stare at the mug, unsettled.

“I’m not used to people recognizing me on sight,” I say slowly. “Let alone people with… creepy eye contact and zero personal boundaries.”

The words are meant to be light, teasing, but they come out harder than intended. Because there’s truth underneath the joke, and we both know it.

He raises a brow, and something shifts in his expression. Amusement, maybe, but darker. Like he knows exactly how creepy his behavior is and finds my reaction entertaining rather than concerning “You think this is intense?”

The way he says it makes my skin crawl. Like this conversation, this meeting, is nothing compared to what’s waiting. Like I haven’t seen anything yet.