The Devil I Know

ARIA

The smell of burnt toast wasn’t the best alarm clock, but it was what I had.

The toaster in my apartment had one setting: charcoal. I jabbed the button to eject the bread before it turned to ash, but it was too late. Smoke curled toward the cracked ceiling, drifting into the corners like it was planning to move in permanently.

“Perfect,” I muttered, waving it away with yesterday’s mail — all bills. Rent notice, water bill, something from the electric company that was probably a warning.

The heater in the corner coughed like an old smoker, rattling with every breath. My blanket had slid to the floor sometime during the night, leaving my toes frozen. The single-pane window was coated with condensation from the cold outside, but it still let in a draft that turned my skin to goosebumps.

I’d stopped expecting comfort in this place a long time ago. It wasn’t home — not in the way that word was supposed to mean. It was four walls, a roof that leaked in spring, and a lock that stuck if I turned the key too fast. But it was mine. And that counted for something.

The mirror above the sink was cracked, making it look like my reflection had been splintered in half. I swiped on concealer, a quick streak of eyeliner, and deep red lipstick — my one luxury item. If I was going to spend ten hours on my feet, at least my lips could look alive.

I threw on my black jeans, a faded band T-shirt, and my thickest hoodie. My sneakers were two years old and had holes in the soles, but they still worked if I avoided puddles. I tugged my hair into a messy bun, grabbed my apron, and shoved it into my bag.

The cafe sat on the edge of Riverridge’s old quarter — where empty storefronts outnumbered open ones, and peeling paint was a permanent fixture. The cracked sidewalks and flickering streetlights told stories of better days long gone. A few blocks away, the glass towers of Grayson Industries gleamed like a different world, untouched by the slow decay.

The walk to the cafe was routine — twenty minutes past the pawn shop with the “Going Out of Business” sign that had been hanging for three years, past the bakery that smelled better than it tasted, past the corner store that sold suspicious meat pies. I could walk the route blindfolded. Sometimes I thought I already did, my mind elsewhere.

Riverridge wasn’t the kind of town that made the news. It was small, quiet, and just rough enough around the edges to remind you that dreams didn’t grow here. People either stayed forever or left and never looked back. I’d tried leaving once. It hadn’t ended the way I thought it would.

When I pushed through the diner door, the bell gave its usual tired jingle.

“Morning, sunshine,” called Lisa from behind the counter. She’d been here longer than me, and her sarcasm was the only thing sharper than her eyeliner.

“Morning,” I said, tying on my apron. “What’s broken today?”

“The espresso machine,” she said without missing a beat. “Again. And table four is already complaining about the coffee being weak.”

“Table four complains when the sun rises,” I muttered, grabbing a pot.

Mr. Donnelly, the owner, waved from the kitchen pass-through. His white hair stuck up like he’d combed it with a fork. “We’ve got a big lunch rush coming in, Aria. Keep those smiles coming.”

“Always,” I said, giving him a mock salute.

The first customers of the day were the regulars — Benny the cab driver, who always tipped in quarters; the Henderson sisters, who ordered two muffins and split them like they were rationing for the apocalypse; and a couple of construction guys who flirted in that harmless, dad-joke kind of way.

“Hey, Red,” one of them said, pointing at my lipstick. “That shade’s dangerous.”

“Only if you can’t handle it,” I shot back, topping off their coffees.

Lisa snorted. “One of these days you’re going to get proposed to by a guy with drywall dust in his hair.”

I smirked. “As long as he can pay rent on time, I’m in.”

By eleven, my feet ached. The tips jar had a disappointing clink of coins and a single crumpled dollar bill. I ignored the knot in my stomach — the one that always tightened when I thought about bills stacking up.

Noon brought the second wave — the business crowd from the edge of town. Suits, polished shoes, and eyes that skimmed over me like I wasn’t worth looking at. They ordered fast, ate faster, and left tips that made me want to stick a “Don’t Come Back” sign on the door.

One man tapped his watch at me because his soup took six minutes instead of five. Another asked if we had real cream, as if the little packets we stocked were some kind of personal insult. I’d learned to let their comments slide off me. Mostly.

By evening, between refilling mugs and clearing plates, I let my mind wander. I thought about the rent notice on my counter. The water bill. The way my heater was starting to sound like it might give out completely. I thought about the fact that even after three years at the diner, I was still scraping by.

I was topping off coffee for a man in a navy suit when the bell over the door jingled again. I didn’t look up right away. My hands were full, and my mind was already skipping ahead to the end of my shift.

But the air in the diner shifted — it always did when someone out of place walked in. Conversations dipped, chairs squeaked as people turned.

I glanced toward the door.

A man stood there, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my yearly rent. His dark hair was slicked back, his jaw sharp, his expression unreadable. He scanned the room like he owned it.

My chest went tight. My grip on the coffee pot faltered.

It couldn’t be.

But it was.

Damian.

The boy I’d once known better than anyone. The man I’d sworn I’d never see again.

My brain scrambled to process it. It had been years — almost a decade since I’d last seen him. I’d imagined it a thousand different ways, the moment we might cross paths again. In every version, I was stronger, richer, untouchable. Not… standing in a faded hoodie with coffee stains on my apron.

He moved like he remembered exactly how much space he took up — deliberate, controlled, with that quiet arrogance that made people step aside without realizing it. He was older now, the boy I’d known long gone. His shoulders broader, his presence heavier. His eyes — still the same shade of dark I remembered — swept over the diner until they landed on me.

The world seemed to narrow, the noise around me dulling until all I could hear was the sound of my own heartbeat.

His gaze didn’t waver. Didn’t flicker with surprise. If anything, there was something almost… inevitable in it, like he’d known I’d be here all along.

I forced myself to breathe, to keep my feet planted.

For a second, I thought about ducking into the kitchen. Pretending I hadn’t seen him. Pretending I was someone else, somewhere else.

But it was too late.

He was already walking toward me.

And just like that, every wall I’d built over the years felt thinner than paper.

DAMIAN

The city never truly slept, but at 5:30 a.m., it did seem to pause — a brief, fragile silence before the chaos returned.

I was already moving before the sun even thought of rising. The weight of another sleepless night settled in my shoulders, but routine had a way of numbing fatigue. The clang of weights echoed in my private gym, muscles burning through controlled strain, the rhythmic beat of my heartbeat syncing with the steady repetition of lifts and presses.

Exercise wasn’t a choice. It was a necessity. A way to keep the chaos at bay, to clear the fog of relentless deadlines and the ghosts of mistakes past. My trainer called it discipline. I called it survival.

Sweat dripped down my brow as I wiped the sting from my eyes, the only sign of vulnerability I allowed myself. The early morning air in the gym was cool and crisp, sharp against my skin — a reminder I was still alive. Even when i