Chapter 5: A Stranger’s Touch

The bell above the boutique door chimed gently — a soft sound that sliced through Juliette’s nerves like a siren. She looked up from behind the counter, a pair of delicate earrings still in her trembling hands.

And there he stood.

Damon Thorne.

Dressed in charcoal slacks and a deep navy button-up shirt, the man looked like he belonged on the cover of a billionaire magazine, not wandering into her modest vintage boutique. His hair was slightly tousled as if he’d escaped something and the bruising around his temple had faded just enough to leave a shadow of what he’d been through.

He looked good. Too good.

Juliette’s stomach flipped.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, too stunned to fake pleasantries.

Damon smiled softly, confused but oddly at ease. “I don’t know,” he admitted, glancing around. “I just… ended up here.”

“You ended up here?”

He nodded, stepping further inside. His eyes trailed over the walls, the displays, the racks of carefully curated clothes. His fingers brushed over the fabric of a silk scarf on a mannequin.

“Everything here feels… familiar.”

Juliette forced a breath through her clenched throat. “Maybe you’ve walked by before.”

“No,” he murmured, gaze flicking to hers. “It’s more than that. Like I’ve been here. Lived something here.”

Juliette moved from behind the counter, heart thudding.

She had planned to disappear again. After Celeste saw Mason, there was no telling what Evelyn Thorne would do. But Damon standing in her shop felt like a twist of fate she hadn’t asked for.

“You’re supposed to be in the hospital,” she said, trying to sound steady.

“I checked myself out,” he replied, still scanning the boutique like it held the secrets to his mind. “I needed air. A sense of normal.”

“And you thought this would be normal?”

“I don’t know,” he said again. “I was walking. Turned a corner. Saw the sign.” He paused. “The name—‘Juliette’s Vintage’ — it called to me.”

Her breath hitched.

“Maybe that’s just the concussion talking,” she muttered, retreating toward the counter.

Damon followed slowly, his steps silent on the hardwood floor.

“Have we met?” he asked.

She turned her back quickly, fumbling with a box of ribbon. “No.”

“I could’ve sworn…”

“I just have one of those faces.”

Silence stretched between them — charged and strange.

Then came a soft crash from the back room.

Juliette winced. “Mason,” she whispered under her breath.

She moved quickly to the curtain separating the shop from the small back office.

“Mason, honey,” she called, trying to sound light, “can you keep it down?”

There was a thud and a muffled, “Okay, Mommy!”

Damon tilted his head. “You have a kid?”

She turned, forcing a smile. “Yeah. He’s six.”

He studied her face for a moment longer, and then stepped toward a crooked shelf of display stands.

“This is leaning,” he said, kneeling beside it. “Do you have a screwdriver?”

“What? You don’t have to —”

“Let me help. It’ll drive me crazy otherwise.”

Before she could protest, he was already examining the bolts. She hesitated, then handed him her small toolbox from under the register.

He worked quietly — focused and surprisingly skilled. She watched him in silence, her heart an anxious storm. It was like watching a ghost rebuild a memory.

A memory he didn’t even know was his.

Ten minutes passed……….then fifteen.

She was about to offer him water when he stood suddenly, brushing his palms against his thighs.

“All done,” he said. “Now it won’t tip over.”

She managed a grateful nod, tension knotting her spine. “Thank you.”

He turned, eyes scanning the space again — curious, searching.

His gaze landed on the side table near the dressing room. On it sat an old leather-bound sketchbook, left open by Mason that morning after he'd begged to see her old drawings.

Damon stepped toward it.

“No — wait,” she started.

But he was already flipping the page.

The sketch stopped him.

A woman in a wedding dress.

Soft curls, delicate features, and eyes drawn with such detail they practically shimmered.

The title at the top of the page: “For D”.

Damon turned slowly, the sketchbook still open in his hands.

“Why does this feel like mine?”

The air stilled.

Juliette’s breath caught in her throat.

“I — I draw,” she said, her voice shaking. “Old habit.”

“This woman,” he said, staring down at the sketch. “She looks like you. Same hair. Same eyes.”

“It’s just… a coincidence.”

“No,” he said, stepping forward. “No, it’s not.”

He tapped the initials. “D. Is that me?”

Juliette’s voice cracked. “You should go.”

But Damon didn’t move.

He stared at the drawing as if the lines were fragments of a dream he couldn’t quite touch.

And then, softly, as if from somewhere deep and broken:

“Was I in love with you?”

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Before Juliette could respond, Mason’s voice rang out again from the back room.

“Mommy! I found the picture of you and Daddy at the beach!”

Juliette’s heart stopped.

Damon looked up, his entire world tilting in his eyes.

“Daddy?”