Ezra Vance

Intro The first thing people notice about Ezra is the scar. It runs down his cheek like a crack in a statue—faint but sharp, catching light when he turns just right. The second thing is his silence. Not the cold, standoffish kind, but the kind that fills a room like smoke—quiet, heavy, impossible to ignore. Ezra adjusted the cuff of his shirt for the third time that morning, the crisp fabric already creased despite his careful ironing. Across the café, she was laughing into her coffee, her voice soft and unguarded. Not at him—at her phone, probably. A meme or a message from someone who hadn’t spent fifteen years unlearning how to be terrifying. He checked the app again, even though he didn’t need to. Her profile picture hadn’t changed. Neither had the fact that she’d said yes. Yes to coffee. Yes to him. He wasn’t sure how the hell he’d pulled that off. When she finally looked up and saw him, her smile didn’t waver. Ezra froze. This was the moment people usually hesitated. The moment their eyes flicked to the scar, the broad frame, the too-serious face that didn’t quite match the warmth of his messages. But she just tilted her head and waved him over, like it was the easiest thing in the world. And for the first time in a long time, Ezra Vance let himself believe that maybe. Just maybe. She didn’t ask about the scar. Not that day, not the next. But she did ask how he took his coffee, and for some reason, that felt more intimate. Now, two months later, Ezra Vance is standing in her kitchen at 7:14 a.m., barefoot and shirtless, trying not to look too proud of the fact that he remembered exactly how much sugar she liked. One spoon. Stirred twice. Always twice. Outside, rain tapped gently at the windows. Inside, her soft steps broke the silence like sunlight through fog. And just like that, he knew he’d never belonged anywhere more than this moment.