Chapter 2: Lemonade and Broken Glass

Fifteen minutes later, I pushed open the door to the breakfast diner and found Ryan mopping the floor. Sunlight poured through the windows, catching in his hair and giving him a halo I’d never admit out loud.

His dark hair—slightly too long—was tied back in a tiny bun, with loose strands framing his jawline. He wore the pale pink apron I’d bought him as a joke, and the thin straps made his lean waist look even narrower. Sweat had soaked through his white T-shirt, plastering it to his chest and shoulders, making it hard to look away.

The scent of burnt coffee and old bacon grease clung to the air, mixing with the clean soap smell on his skin. For a moment, I forgot everything but the way the light caught his profile. Michelangelo would have wept.

But those bullet comments were still crawling through my mind, souring the sight. They’d accused me of getting in the way, annoying the male lead, making the female lead jealous. Each one stung sharper than the last.

God, but Ryan was perfect—like a work of art that belonged in a museum, not behind a diner counter.

"What's wrong?" His voice was cool but gentle, and suddenly he was closer, concern written all over his face. "Why are your eyes red?"

I sniffled, glancing away and searching for any distraction. "The wind got in them."

He nodded, but I caught the way his eyes softened. "Where's Hunter?"

"He fussed for a while. I just got him to sleep."

As soon as he mentioned his son, Ryan’s features melted—like a glacier catching the first rays of spring. The transformation never failed to knock the breath out of me.

"Hunter gets cranky when he wakes up. Just make him some formula. I left it on the table, and the water’s already boiled. The thermometer’s next to it—make sure it’s exactly 98.6 degrees, he can tell the difference."

He paused, rubbing the back of his neck, awkward but sincere. "Later, check if the sweat towel on his back is wet. If it is, change it. There are clean ones in the second drawer of his dresser. I’ll wash the used one when I get home."

He could write a manual: "The Complete Guide to Hunter Mitchell’s Care and Feeding."

His voice was so soft, so careful. It made me think back to the first time I met Ryan and Hunter—three months ago, a night I’d never forget.

Ryan picked me up off the street. Well, technically, Hunter did. But Ryan was the one who took us both home.

After a massive blowout with my family—my mom’s accusations about "wasting my potential" still ringing in my ears—I’d stormed out without my phone. Hungry, exhausted, and lost, I ended up squatting outside a 7-Eleven, crying under a flickering streetlight.

The neon “Open” sign flickered even though the place was definitely closed, casting a weird pink glow on the sidewalk. I felt invisible, desperate, and alone.

"Lady, eat."

Hunter appeared, clutching a candy apple almost as big as his head. His chubby fingers gripped the stick, drool pooling at the corners of his mouth, but he forced himself to offer it to me, eyes squeezed shut like he was sacrificing his greatest treasure.

Watching this little kid try so hard to be generous broke me even more. Tears streamed down my face as I took the apple, and when Ryan showed up—probably searching for his missing son—I was a hot mess: clutching Hunter, crying, sticky-cheeked, snotty, and shoving candy apple into my mouth.

Hunter stared at me, wide-eyed, like he couldn’t figure out why the sad lady was crying harder with every bite. He reached out for his dad, trembling: "Daddy..."

I looked up through my tears and nearly forgot how to breathe. Even blurred by tears, Ryan was devastating—like a model who’d just survived a week without sleep. Faded jeans, a band tee, and that tired, wary beauty.

He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "Want some noodles?"

"Yes!" I blurted, desperate for anything.

He led me to a tiny noodle shop three blocks away and counted out crumpled bills to buy the most watery noodles I’d ever tasted. No veggies, barely any flavor, just a bowl of limp carbs in salty water.

I tried to pretend the noodles tasted like comfort food, but all I could taste was how much I needed this tiny kindness. I fell for him right then and there—hard, the kind of crush that hurts.

But those bullet comments wouldn’t let me forget: Ryan had someone he liked. He’d meet her today. He’d end up hating me because I just couldn’t take a hint.

"You look really pale." A glass of lemonade appeared in front of me, ice cubes clinking, a thin slice of lemon balanced on the rim—exactly how I liked it.

Ryan handed it to me, worry etched into his voice. "If you’re not feeling well, don’t push yourself. I can find someone else for Hunter. Mrs. Chen from 3B offered, or there’s that daycare on Maple Street."

"Maybe it’s just the heat. Nothing serious."

I pasted on a smile, muscle memory after three months, and reached for the drink. My fingers brushed the back of his hand—barely a touch. I was distracted, mind racing with those nasty comments, and before I could even apologize, Ryan jerked away like he’d been shocked. The glass slipped, shattering with a sharp, echoing crack. Lemonade splashed across the floor, ice cubes skittering everywhere.

A tense silence filled the air, the sound of breaking glass still ringing in my ears. My stomach dropped. Ryan’s eyes flicked to mine—just for a split second, shame and something darker flashing there—then darted away.

He clenched and unclenched his fists, breathing ragged, then forced himself to steady. "I’ll get you another cup. Don’t touch the glass. I’ll clean it up later."

He all but ran to the kitchen, as if he couldn’t get away fast enough.

[Ahhhhh such a good male lead keeping himself pure for the female lead]

[LMAO the side character tries every trick to touch the male lead, and he’s so disgusted he immediately dodges. But later with the female lead, his skin hunger syndrome kicks in and he desperately clings to her]

Wait—Ryan had touch issues? That was a real thing, right? I’d read about it online, but…

I’d only brushed his hand for half a second, but his reaction was like I’d burned him. And it wasn’t the first time. I thought back—he always pulled away, always found an excuse to keep his distance. I’d thought he was just shy. Turns out, maybe he just couldn’t stand me.

My heart twisted. Was I just the reliable babysitter? Someone he could trust with his kid, but never wanted too close?

I stared at the broken glass and forced a smile. My heart felt just as shattered.