Broken Loop

Chapter Three: First Fracture

Dawn stained the sky a bruised lavender when Aiden Hartman crept from the bedroom and across the hall. His heart thudded in his ears—an overdriven metronome he could not silence. Last night's terror lingered in every corner: the memory of Jade's silhouette on the balcony, the flash of her eyes in a final farewell, the sickening crack of glass beneath her weight.

He paused outside her door, hand on the knob. She slept, curled in the nest of blankets, face half–hidden beneath tousled strands of dark hair. For a moment he wanted to stay, to cradle her as she slept. But he could not—sleep would kill the urgency he felt, and tonight he needed every second of wakefulness.

He slipped into the bathroom and flicked on the kettle. Steam curled from the spout once it hissed to life. The soft gurgle grounded him: a reminder that nothing in his world was certain except the next breath. He measured tea leaves by habit—two spoonfuls of chamomile for warmth, one dash of lavender for calm. Every ritual rooted him in the present, tenuous though it might be.

Jade emerged in a half–doze, brushing her arm across her eyes. "Morning," she mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

Aiden set a cup before her. "Tea." He kept his tone light, as though last night had been a bad dream neither of them need revisit.

She blinked, frowned. "You look like you saw a ghost."

He lifted a shoulder. "Almost."

She took a careful sip, eyes drifting to the teaspoon on the counter, finger tracing its curve. "You're still talking about... last night?"

He hesitated. "We should—"

She shook her head, setting the cup aside. "I can't keep doing this." Her voice dropped so low he almost missed it. "You with your... loops. It's too much."

He shut his mouth, guilt shrinking him. "Okay."

She managed a small, sad smile. "Today... normal, please?"

He nodded, trapping the word in his throat. "Normal."

• • •

At eight thirty, Jade slid into her coat and left for the café. Aiden followed twenty minutes later, jacket collar turned up against a chill that felt like yesterday's sorrow. Today, she had to see him as a brother, not a time–stalking stranger.

The café smelled of espresso and honeyed pastries when he slipped inside. Jade stood behind the counter, apron tied tight, expression guarded. She prepared a latte with the precision of someone who needed routine to survive. Milk steamed. Foam bloomed. She topped the cup with a heart in cinnamon.

Aiden took a seat at the bar, music drifting—soft jazz mingling with the hiss of coffee machines. He gave her a small nod. "Hey."

Her smile was thin. She slid the latte across to him. "You're early."

He met her eyes in the coffee foam's swirl. "Just like you."

She frowned. "Just... go home."

His chest stung. "I can't."

She snapped the barista's glass down, tension rippling through her. "Then don't."

The bells above the door jingled. A regular breezed in, and Jade dashed behind the counter to help. Aiden watched her move: the slight slump in her shoulders, the way her fingers trembled when she reached for orders. He reminded himself: she was alive, here, and possibly safe—for now.

When the morning rush eased, he took his coffee and left without a word.

• • •

Homebound, the city blurred by through rain–slick streets. He parked at the curb, boots squeaking as he climbed the steps. The apartment was silent; light seeped from behind Jade's door. He forced his shoulders down and knocked—twice, then a third time.