Chapter 3: The Unexpected Run-In
The next three days passed in a blur of clinic hours and unpacked boxes. Alexandra would find herself standing in the middle of her living room, a book in her hand, having completely forgotten what she was looking for. The phantom sensation of his knuckle grazing her jawline was a persistent ghost. She’d touch the spot absently, then shake her head, trying to physically dispel the memory. It didn’t work.
“You need to get out of your head,” Jessica declared over the phone on Thursday evening. Jessica, a force of nature since their UT pre-med days, wasn’t asking. “I’m picking you up at eight. Wear the black jeans. We’re going to The Crescent. Rooftop. Air. Other human beings.”
Alexandra started to protest, to cite the stack of medical journals on her coffee table. But the silence of her apartment had begun to feel like a container for her spiraling thoughts. “Fine,” she sighed. “But I’m leaving by ten-thirty. I have an early patient.”
The Crescent was one of those places that existed solely for Instagram, all sleek lines, living walls, and breathtaking prices. The elevator opened directly onto the rooftop, releasing them into a scene of curated cool. The sky was a deep indigo, the Austin skyline a jagged necklace of neon and window light. A low, bassy house track pulsed through hidden speakers, just loud enough to feel the vibration in your chest. String lights crisscrossed overhead, their reflections shattered and multiplied in the glass tabletops.
They scored a corner booth near the wrought-iron railing. Jessica ordered a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc without consulting the menu. “Okay, therapist is in,” she said, pouring two generous glasses. “Start talking. You’ve been spacey since Sunday.”
Alexandra took a long sip. The wine was crisp, cold, a shock to the system. She looked out at the Capitol building, glowing white in the distance. “I saw Mark.”
Jessica’s eyebrows shot up. “The Mark? At the grocery store?”
“He texted. Wanted to talk. We got coffee.”
“Oh, shit.” Jessica leaned in, her curiosity immediate and intense. “Talk about what? The weather? The profound cultural impact of One Piece?”
“His engagement.” The words felt dangerous out loud. “He says it’s strained. That Sabrina is in love with the brand, not the man. That he’s… lonely.”
Jessica let out a low whistle, sitting back. “Damn. That’s heavy. And he dumped this on you, his ex, why? Hoping for a consolation prize?”
“It wasn’t like that,” Alexandra said, too quickly. She traced the rim of her glass. “It was just… real. He said seeing me felt like being able to breathe again.”
“Alex.” Jessica’s voice lost its teasing edge. “You know what that is, right? That’s not a friend catching up. That’s a man testing the waters. And he’s engaged. With a ring and a date and, I’m assuming, ten million followers waiting for the wedding pics.”
“I know.” The frustration bubbled up. “I know all of that. But you didn’t see his face, Jess. It was like he was showing me a crack in a perfect wall. And then…” She hesitated, the memory liquid and warm. “He touched my face. Just for a second. Before he left.”
Jessica stared at her, mouth slightly agape. “He what? Okay, that is not ‘just talking.’ That is a deliberate, intimate-as-hell gesture. What did you do?”
“I froze. And then he walked away.” She finished her glass. “And now I can’t stop thinking about it. About him. About us arguing over filler episodes when we were sixteen. It’s like that coffee shop unlocked a door I spent years nailing shut.”
“You have to be careful,” Jessica said, her tone serious. “This isn’t high school anymore. The stakes are astronomical for him, and you’re just getting your life started here. You can’t be his midlife crisis.”
Before Alexandra could respond, a wave of boisterous laughter cut through the ambient hum of the bar. It was a familiar, rolling sound. Her head turned instinctively.
The elevator doors had parted like curtains, and a group of men spilled out onto the rooftop. There was Ben, with his easy grin, clapping Desmond on the shoulder. Aff and Dylan were mid-argument, gesturing wildly. Leeland trailed behind, checking his phone. And in the center, wearing a dark hoodie despite the warm night, was Mark.
He was laughing at something Desmond said, his head thrown back, the string lights catching the strong line of his throat. He looked relaxed, surrounded by his crew, in his element. This was Mark Phillips, the content king, not the haunted man from the cafe patio.
Alexandra’s entire body went still. She felt Jessica’s eyes on her, watching the reaction.
The group migrated toward the long bar, their energy creating a gravitational pull in the room. Mark leaned against the polished wood, still smiling, saying something to the bartender. Then, as if snagged by an invisible thread, his gaze drifted from Ben, across the crowded rooftop, and landed directly on her.
His laughter died mid-breath.
The smile faded, not into sadness, but into a stunned, electric blankness. Everything around them—the clink of glasses, the thumping music, Jessica’s held breath—seemed to drop away, muffled by a thick pane of glass. The distance between the bar and her corner booth felt both vast and infinitesimal.
He didn’t look away. He didn’t nod or offer a casual wave. He just stared. The intensity from the coffee shop was back, magnified by the surprise of the setting, amplified by the audience of his closest friends just feet away from him, completely unaware.
She saw him swallow. Saw his knuckles whiten where he gripped the edge of the bar. His expression was an open, raw question. You’re here.
Time stretched, elastic and thin. A server passed between them, breaking the line of sight for a second. When the path cleared, his eyes were still locked on hers. He hadn’t moved a muscle.
Desmond, following Mark’s frozen gaze, turned. Alexandra saw his eyebrows climb his forehead as he spotted her. He said something low to Mark, a question. Mark didn’t seem to hear him.
Then, slowly, deliberately, Mark pushed himself away from the bar. He left his friends, their conversation continuing without him, and took one step. Then another. Moving toward her.
Her heart was a frantic drum against her ribs. The cool night air felt suddenly scorching. She watched him navigate the maze of tables, his eyes never leaving hers, a man walking a tightrope strung across the entire buzzing, glittering rooftop.
He was halfway across the roof when the shadows near the elevator shifted.
Two men in crisp button-downs slid into their space, their cologne arriving a moment before they did, sharp and woodsy. “Hey, y’all mind if we join you for a second?” The taller one had a smile that was all practiced ease, his eyes fixed on Alexandra. “We saw you from over there and just had to say something.”
Jessica’s face tightened into a polite, frozen mask.
“We’re actually in the middle of—” Alexandra began, her gaze straining to see past the man’s shoulder.
“Is that mango mojito any good?” the other man interrupted, pointing at Jessica’s drink. He leaned on the table with his knuckles, blocking her view entirely. The rooftop, the lights, Mark—all vanished behind a wall of gabardine shirt and intrusive confidence. “I’m Jason, this is Marcus.”
From the corner of her eye, she caught a flicker of movement by the bar. Mark had stopped dead in his tracks. He stood there for one suspended beat, his journey severed, his expression going carefully neutral.
He watched Jason’s hand gesture toward the empty chairs. She saw the faint, almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw, the slight downward pull at the corner of his mouth.
Then he turned on his heel.
He walked back to his friends at the bar, shoulders set in a line of deliberate nonchalance. He didn’t look back. Ben handed him a short glass with amber liquid and ice, and Mark took it, lifting it in some private toast before throwing the drink back in one practiced gulp. His laughter rejoined the group’s a moment later, but it sounded different now—a little too loud, a little too sharp.
It was a masterful performance for anyone not watching his hands.
His thumb was tracing the rim of his empty glass, around and around, with a focused, restless energy that betrayed the casual slump of his posture.
“So, you’re a nurse?” Jason was saying, pulling her attention back to the table with a gravitational pull she resented. “That’s sexy. Stressful, though, right?”
Alexandra felt Jessica’s foot nudge hers under the table. “Actually, she’s a Nurse Practitioner,” Jessica corrected, her voice dripping with saccharine syrup. “Which requires a Master’s degree. So it’s stressful, yes, but in a much more intellectually demanding way than, say, whatever it is you two do.”
Marcus blinked. Jason’s smile didn’t falter, but it hardened at the edges.
The interruption had lasted less than three minutes. It felt like an hour. When the two men finally retreated, mumbling about catching up with their group, the air around the booth felt thin and brittle.
Jessica exhaled loudly.“Vultures. You okay?”
Alexandra’s eyes were already on the bar. The RDC crew was gathering their things, coats being shrugged on. They were leaving. Mark had his back to her, listening to Desmond, nodding along. He didn’t turn around.
The elevator chimed softly, its doors opening to swallow the group whole. Just before he stepped inside, Mark glanced over his shoulder.
It wasn’t the searing, direct look from before. It was a quick, sidelong glance, loaded with a silent, complex message of frustration and apology. Then the doors slid shut, and the space he occupied was empty.
Her phone, face-down on the table, buzzed.
A new text notification glowed on the screen. The preview line read: Mark Phillips: I didn’t know you’d be there. Seeing you with those guys…
The message cut off, unfinished. She didn’t open it. She just watched the screen until it went dark, a pit of cold disappointment opening in her stomach where the electric tension had been moments before.
The rooftop bar’s festive energy now felt hollow and mocking. The clinking glasses were just noise. She picked up her purse, the leather cool in her grip. “Let’s get out of here.”
Down in the quiet of the parking garage, Jessica hugged her tight. “Go home. Don’t answer that text tonight.”
Alexandra drove through the neon-soaked streets, her mind replaying the aborted journey across the rooftop. The determined set of his shoulders as he walked toward her. The defeated slump when he turned away. That final, fleeting glance.
Her phone buzzed again in the passenger seat, a blue glow in the dark car. She ignored it.
When she got home, she didn’t turn on the lights. She went to the last unpacked box, the one marked “BOOKS,” and dug beneath the paperbacks. Her fingers closed around cool, smooth plastic.
She pulled out an old, slightly warped DVD case. The cover was faded, its colors softened by time. It was a bootleg copy of One Piece: The Movie, the one they’d watched a dozen times in his basement, surrounded by crushed soda cans and shared blankets.
She ran her thumb over the worn image of Luffy. A memory, sharp and sweet, pierced her: Mark, at sixteen, voice cracking with excitement, explaining to her why Chopper was the heart of the crew. “He just wants to help people, Alex. He doesn’t need to be the strongest.”
Her phone buzzed once more on the counter, lighting up the bare wall.
This time, the preview was longer.
Mark Phillips: I walked away because if I’d gotten to your table, I wouldn’t have been able to leave. And I had to leave.