#divorced!au

“is this seat taken?” a familiar voice takes me out of my spiral of thoughts. i look up at him—a face i haven’t seen in close to a year. he smiles, toying a little with the ring on his little finger. 

a small curl escapes his bun. he looks like he’s just stepped out—grey jumper, black jeans, black converse. i stare for longer than i should, a little taken aback. 

“you still come here,” the surprise in my voice is clear, palpable. 

he smiles, eyes crinkling in a way that reminds me of all the times i’d traced my fingers over it. “whenever i’m back home, yes.”

home. yes. it saddens me a little that it’s a luxury for him most days. 

“you never answered my question, darling,” he lingers near my table, hip bumping into the chair opposite mine. 

“you still call me that,” i smile like it’s a secret between us. 

he returns my smile, and when i don’t object to it, settles into the chair opposite mine. 

“what are you having?”

“mocha with enough caramel in it to make you shudder.” i give my drink another swirl, subtly inhaling the scent of caramel wafting from it. “too sweet for you.”

he simply stares at the drink first, then at me, playing with the ring on his finger again. 

“what?”

he shrugs, turning around to signal for a barista. “‘s nice being known is all.”

i take a sip of my coffee, the sweetness melting over my tongue while he places his order. (coffee. black.) 

“why are you here?” the question is a little blunt. inwardly, i wince. perhaps i shouldn’t come across so hostile outright. 

“saw you from that window, thought i’d come in and say hi.”

i scrutinise him a little. he’s older now, a little tired with crow’s feet around his eyes. the lines on his face look deeper than the last time i’d seen him. his eyes look a little flat too, although i decide to chalk that up to post-tour exhaustion. 

“that’s all?”

he nods, “that’s all.”

in spite of myself, there’s a small pang in my chest. 

“you’ve been…well?” i cringe a little the moment it leaves my mouth. the question sounds so formal and and painfully awkward—like talking to a skittish animal. 

“sure,” he nods, turning to thank the barista who arrives with his coffee just then. steam wafts from the dark liquid. i already know just how bitter it will taste compared to my sweet drink. and still i smile when he takes a sip and sighs. “i’ve travelled the world and—”

“—haven’t found coffee as good as this,” i finish his sentence, smiling, cheesing at his dramatics. “you always say that. it’s just black coffee. not the hardest thing in the world to make.”

he brightens a little, shaking his head at me in mock disapproval. the silence that settles over us after is much kinder, friendlier. he sips on his drink and i take the time to watch him—a strand or two of grey in his hair now, his beard’s a bit longer too. it suits him better like this, so much so that i almost reach out and touch, thinking better of it at the last moment. 

something else catches my eye then, the ring on his little finger, closer to me now. glinting in the sunlight. 

“you’re wearing my ring,” i point out. he looks down at his hand and then back up at me. the smile on his face turns crooked. 

“you left it on my dining table, so that makes it mine now. besides,” he points a finger at me, eyes softening a little, “you’re wearing my jumper.”

i gasp, look down at myself. “i hadn’t…i’m so…”

“‘s alright,” he takes another sip of his coffee, “i bought it so you could steal it anyway.”

a strange sort of warmth settles into my bones. when i pick up my mug again, it’s empty, its contents already consumed. his smile turns a little sad. 

“do you need to go?” the plea in his voice squeezes like a fist around my heart. but my phone blinks at me, a messenger of father time. 

“i do, i…” i swallow, gathering my bag in my arms, “it was lovely seeing you, angel.”

his eyes twinkle, much like mine had before. “you still call me that too…”

“old habits,” i shrug. then i stand, lifting my hand up into an awkward wave. 

but i linger. unable to simply just… go. 

“will you at least text me when you get home safely?” he asks, voice a little hoarse then, and fidgets with his ring again, something i’ve now realised is an anxious habit. i stare at his hands a little longer than necessary—beautiful, familiar hands, hands that held mine and traced shapes on my body and showed me stars. 

home, i think to myself, some cold, expensive flat in the complete opposite side of town. white and beige, full of flat, steely surfaces and perfectly made beds. just one toothbrush in the bathroom, though, just one towel. 

“i’ll text you when i get back home,” i nod. it’s not illegal for exes to care about each other’s basic safety, is it? 

“and will you?” he raises an eyebrow, “go home?”

so this is what it has come to… thinly veiled questions that mean something else entirely, and none of us can bring ourselves to say what we really want to. 

he picks up on the third ring. 

“is this a butt dial?” there are no hellos, no confusion. just a voice that is full of sleep—heavy and deep the way i remember it. i bite my lip and stifle a sigh. 

“no,” a loose thread on my t-shirt finds its way between my fidgety fingers. hesitation rises in my and almost tampers down the words, but they escape anyway. “an sos call?”

“you alright?” he sounds a little bit alert then, not really alarmed, not yet. but this is not that kind of an sos call. 

“mmm,” i breathe down the phone. “i need… well… i have to be somewhere important and…”

“this is interesting,” he interjects. there’s a rustle on his end of the call—he’s getting out of bed, i think. his hair might be slipping out of its bun by now, wild on one side and matted on the other. 

and there; now he’d be running his fingers through them. getting them as presentable as possible even though there’s no one to see it. 

at least no one i’m aware of. 

“what is?”

he yawns. “you’re rambling. what do you need?”

“my car’s been making a weird sound…” i flush, suddenly embarrassed. 

fuck fuck fuck. should have sucked it up and called a mechanic. fuck. 

“ah.” that’s all he says, a quiet little ah with an edge of mischief to it. “and you want me to come over and take a look?”

“mmm.”

“what happened to all the mechanics in town?”

he’s teasing, i know he’s teasing—his tone is light and airy, teetering on impish, and i can practically hear the smile in it. practically see it on his face… still, i flush a bit more. 

“they have all this jargon,” i wave my hands through the air, knowing he can’t see me. “i haven’t had to do it in quite some time.”

the last time it happened, he was here. the last time my car needed a mechanic, i had a husband.

he’s not coming he’s not coming he’s not coming. and why would he…

“alright.”

my breath hitches. “really?”

i have a feeling he nods. a moment passes by, and he hums. “it’s 7:30 in the morning. i haven’t had coffee. barely slept for three hours. i don’t think any decision i make right now should be counted as a bad decision.”

in spite of myself, i giggle. “i can have coffee ready for you?”

“would you? haven’t had your coffee in a long time, darling.”

darling. he’s sleepy, i tell myself, he’s barely in the land of the living. 

“a year,” i say.

“a year,” he echoes. 

thirty minutes later, he shows up at my door. 

damp curls stick to his forehead, his faded and worn t-shirt hugs him just the way i remember it. i’m no longer used to his large body dwarfing any space he’s in, especially not when the bell rings, and i open the door, coming right up to his chest. especially not when he lingers right there at the threshold like an uninvited vampire. 

“would you like to come in?”

“i’d have thought you parked your car outside.”

it’s not a particularly mean jab. it’s not cruel at all. and yet as i look at him a tinge of wariness flickers in his eye. 

“the coffee’s inside,” i mumble. 

“right,” he says, and this time, follows me inside obediently. 

there’s a soft click of the door shutting behind him. there’s warmth and the smell of coffee and the sun. it surrounds me—us—like a blanket. a bubble that won’t let any of the fragile domesticity escape. i don’t turn. i let him linger and look around. 

“it smells like coffee,” he says, his tone neutral, but there’s a slight upturn at the corner of his mouth.

“freshly brewed.” i motion toward the kitchen, my voice tight, unsure. “let me get you a mug.”

he doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink. “i’ll wait.”

to the kitchen i go, mostly in search of a place to hide. i just know i would crumble if i went any closer to him. the distance is safe. not breathing in his familiar scent is safe. 

all around me is dead silence. 

and then the cacophony of thoughts that compels me to go through the motions—get the mugs out, wipe them clean, press the plunger on the french press, pick at the loose thread. on and on until somehow i’m in front of two steaming mugs, and it’s time to go outside. 

“here,” i blink, holding the mug in front of him, somehow back in the living room again.

our fingers brush when he takes it from me, and it’s a gut punch of a feeling—lasting an eternity and over far too soon. 

“‘s nice,” he breathes, sipping his coffee, makes exaggerated sounds of contentment. i smile. 

thank you lingers on the tip of my tongue. 

thank you for being here on your day off. thank you for not making this difficult. thank you for coming.

but the moment passes and now it’s too late to say anything. 

it’s enough that he’s here after everything. 

the silence between us stretches long and thin, like a tightrope i’m terrified to walk. he stands there, mug in hand, looking at me the way he used to—eyes quiet, assessing, like he’s reading all the things i’m not saying.

the tightness in my chest is too much to bear. “the car,” i mumble, motioning vaguely toward the door. “we should…”

“right,” he says, cutting me off, his voice low and calm, like he’s waiting for something. for me, maybe. he puts the mug down on the side table with deliberate care.

i glance at the mug and then at him—warm, kind eyes. open face. enough to make my chest ache.

a small sigh escapes his lips. “the car, then.” he turns toward the door, his shoulders not tense but not exactly relaxed either. there’s hesitation there too. like he’s waiting for me to stop him.

i don’t.

and it’s perhaps the voice of wisdom breaking through the forefront of my brain that i don’t.