Chapter 3 Lines that blur

By the end of the week, Carl Woode had become a routine.

Marilyn hated that she noticed.

He came in every morning at exactly 9:12, ordered the same black coffee large, no sugar and sat at the same table near the window. He never stayed long. Fifteen minutes, sometimes twenty. He read emails, occasionally made quiet phone calls, and then left with a brief nod that wasn't quite polite but wasn't dismissive either.

At first, Marilyn told herself it was coincidence.

By the fourth day, she knew better.

"You've got a fan," Lena teased one morning as Carl settled into his usual seat. "Tall, dark, emotionally unavailable."

Marilyn shot her a look. "He's not a fan. He's just... consistent."

"Mmm-hmm," Lena hummed. "And you just happen to tense up every time he walks in."

"I do not."

"You absolutely do."

Marilyn turned away, cheeks warm, and focused on steaming milk. She didn't want to admit that Carl's presence unsettled her-not in a frightening way, but in the way a sudden change in weather did. Predictable on the surface, dangerous underneath.

She didn't trust him.

Men like Carl Woode didn't drift into places like her café without a reason. And whatever his reason was, she doubted it was harmless.

Carl, for his part, told himself the café was convenient.

It was close to his office. The coffee was adequate. The environment was quieter than most places. All logical reasons. Completely reasonable.

It had nothing to do with Marilyn Porter.

Except that wasn't true, and Carl knew it.

He found himself watching her when she wasn't looking-how she listened fully when customers spoke, how her patience shifted subtly depending on who stood in front of her, how she carried exhaustion without complaint. She worked hard. Harder than most people he knew, and for a fraction of the reward.

That should have made him dismissive.

Instead, it made him curious.

One morning, a delivery truck blocked the café's back entrance, delaying supplies. By noon, the place was chaotic. Orders piled up, tempers shortened, and Marilyn's calm began to fray.

A man at the counter slammed his hand down. "I've been waiting fifteen minutes!"

Marilyn clenched her jaw. "I understand, sir. We're understaffed today."

"That's not my problem!"

Carl watched from his table, irritation rising not at the man, but at the inefficiency of the situation. Without thinking, he stood.

"You're holding up the line," Carl said coolly. "If you're in a rush, leave."

Marilyn's head snapped toward him. "Carl."

The way she said his name sharp, warning stopped him mid-sentence.

"I don't need help," she said quietly, her eyes hard. "I've got this."

The customer muttered and stepped aside. Marilyn exhaled slowly, then turned to Carl.

"What did I say about respect?" she asked under her breath.

Carl stiffened. "I was trying to help."

"You were trying to control."

"I solve problems."

"Not everything needs fixing by force," Marilyn said. "Sometimes people just need space."

Carl crossed his arms, pride flaring. "That's inefficient."

She laughed, incredulous. "You really can't help yourself, can you?"

Carl opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn't like being spoken to like that especially not in public. But he also didn't like the truth sitting uncomfortably beneath her words.

"I'll stay out of it," he said tightly.

"Good," Marilyn replied. "Because this is my space."

The distance between them grew colder after that.

Carl stopped speaking unless necessary. Marilyn returned his coffee with professional detachment. Whatever fragile understanding they had been building fractured under pride and stubbornness on both sides.

Two days later, the fracture widened.

Marilyn finished a late shift and stepped outside into the dim evening, only to find her bike missing from where she'd locked it. Panic rose sharply in her chest.

"No, no, no," she whispered, scanning the street.

That bike was everything. Her only transportation. She couldn't afford to replace it.

"Problem?"

Carl's voice came from behind her.

She turned sharply. "My bike's gone."

Carl glanced at the empty rack, then at her face. She tried to hide it, but fear crept into her eyes.

"I'll take care of it," he said immediately.

"No," Marilyn replied. "You don't need to"

"I said I will," he insisted, already pulling out his phone.

She stepped in front of him. "Stop."

Carl frowned. "Why?"

"Because you don't get to solve this by throwing money at it," she said. "This is my problem."

"That's ridiculous," Carl snapped. "You need it. I can fix this in minutes."

"And then what?" Marilyn shot back. "You feel better? Powerful? Like you saved the poor café girl?"

The words stung more than he expected.

"That's not what I meant."

"But it's what you do," she said quietly. "You take over. You decide. You don't ask."

Carl stared at her, jaw tight. "You're being unfair."

"Am I?" she asked. "Because right now, it feels like you don't see me-you see a situation."

Silence stretched.

Carl lowered his phone slowly. "I don't know how to do this differently," he admitted.

The honesty surprised them both.

Marilyn's expression softened just a little. "Then start by listening."

He nodded once.

They walked together to the bus stop. It was awkward at first, heavy with things unsaid. Finally, Marilyn spoke.

"You don't have to fix everything, Carl."

He looked at her. "If I don't, things fall apart."

"That's not true," she said. "Sometimes people hold themselves together just fine."

Carl watched her board the bus, then stood there long after it pulled away.

For the first time, he felt the limits of his power.

And for the first time, he wondered if pride his greatest strength might also be the very thing keeping him alone.