We stared at each other in silence for a very long moment.

The quiet between us was no longer hostile or fraught with danger; it was simply heavy, weighed down by the unspoken history of the last five years of estrangement.

“A large black coffee, please,” I said quietly, my voice gentle.

Chloe simply nodded, her jaw tight. Her hands shook just slightly as she reached for a large paper cup. She turned her back to me and worked the espresso machine with practiced efficiency, a skill she had clearly spent years mastering just to survive.

When she finally turned back, she placed the steaming cup gently on the counter. Our fingers brushed slightly as I reached for the cardboard sleeve. I felt the texture of her skin; her hands were rough, calloused from years of manual labor and dishwashing chemicals.