Chapter 18

Sunlight spilled through the gauzy curtains, painting stripes of warmth across the hardwood floor. Pete Hancock sat at his kitchen table, a mug of freshly brewed coffee in one hand and his tablet in the other, scrolling through the latest headlines. The serenity of the morning wrapped around him like a well-worn robe, undisturbed but for the gentle hum of the refrigerator.

A rustle from the hallway broke the calm, and he didn"t need to look up to know the source. She padded into the kitchen, hair tousled and eyes squinting against the light, remnants of last night"s mascara framing her gaze with smudged shadows.

"Is there more coffee?" Her voice was raspy, hopeful.

"Sure," Pete replied, not lifting his eyes from the screen, "but pour it in a travel mug, will you? I"ve got plans today."

Her brows knitted together, a slight frown tugging at her lips. "Oh, I thought maybe we could?—"

"Can"t," he cut her off curtly, finally glancing up with a casual shrug. "Busy day ahead."

The air between them thickened, charged with unspoken words and expectations dashed. She crossed her arms, a defensive barrier that came too late. "You could"ve mentioned that last night."

He scoffed lightly, a smirk playing on his lips. "Last night was last night. Today's today." His tone was dismissive, indifferent to the sting he knew his words carried.

She huffed, grabbing her purse from the counter and shaking her head in disbelief. "You"re an ass, Hancock."

"Never claimed otherwise," he retorted, watching as she poured the coffee with jerky movements, her irritation palpable.

"Whatever." The word was a venom-tipped arrow shot over her shoulder as she made her way to the door, heels clicking a staccato rhythm of frustration.

"Take care!" he called out, the mocking cheerfulness in his voice following her exit.

The door slammed with finality, its echo bouncing off the walls. Pete chuckled to himself, reveling in the silence that resettled over the room. He loved the chase and the conquest—each weekend a new game. But this one had been particularly dull, forgettable.

Just as he took another sip of coffee, a noise from the front door caught his attention. A muffled thump, like something soft colliding with wood. He frowned, setting down his mug. Perhaps she had forgotten her dignity along with her hair tie.

Annoyed, he stalked to the door and yanked it open, ready to dismiss her with a cutting remark. But the doorstep was empty, save for a solitary envelope lying there, a silent intruder in the stillness of the morning.

"Pete Hancock" was scrawled across the front in looping cursive. He scanned the street, searching for any sign of a messenger, but the neighborhood remained still as if holding its breath. Unease coiled in his stomach as he bent to pick up the envelope, the paper cool and impersonal in his hand.

"Who leaves letters anymore?" he muttered, turning the envelope over—no return address, no stamp, just his name, as though whoever sent it knew he"d be the one to find it.

With a last, wary glance outside, Pete stepped back into the sanctuary of his home, the door closing with a soft click behind him. He turned the envelope over in his hands, apprehension threading through his curiosity. This Sunday, it seemed, had just taken an unexpected turn.