Chapter 8 - Keefe

*Keefe's POV*

Keefe paced back and forth in the café, his fingers tapping nervously against the table. Foster had been gone too long. Way too long. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. She had seemed distant ever since they sat down, and now, after she'd excused herself to the bathroom, he couldn't shake the gnawing worry crawling under his skin.

Foster was usually so present, so full of energy and life. The way she lit up when she smiled, the way she laughed at his jokes—even the quiet moments, when she'd just listen as he rambled on. He missed that. But today? She'd been quieter than usual, almost... distant. And now she had been gone for a while.

His instincts were screaming at him. Something was wrong. So wrong.

His thoughts kept racing as he pushed his chair back and stood up. Maybe she was just taking longer than usual. Maybe she needed a moment alone, but something told him to check on her. He had to.

With no further hesitation, Keefe moved toward the hallway leading to the restrooms. He was already regretting not following her sooner. As he neared the bathrooms, he stopped for a second. He could feel it. The moment before the storm. The tension in the air felt so thick it almost made it hard to breathe.

The door to the bathroom was slightly ajar. He hesitated for just a second, a brief moment of doubt running through his mind. But then, his feet moved before his thoughts could catch up.

He nudged the door open gently. He wasn't sure what he expected to find, but what he saw hit him like a punch to the gut.

Foster stood frozen in the doorway of a bathroom stall, her entire body stiff as a board, her hands gripped tightly on the doorframe. Her eyes were wide, filled with shock and disbelief. She wasn't moving. She wasn't even blinking.

And then he saw them.

Fitz and Stina.

They were tangled up together in a kiss that was anything but innocent. Fitz had Stina pressed against the bathroom wall, his hands in her hair, pulling her closer. Stina's hands were on his chest, her fingers digging into him like she couldn't get enough. It wasn't just a kiss—it was heated, desperate, full of emotion. Keefe could feel the tension crackling between them even from where he stood. It was a kiss meant for something more. Something real.

Keefe could feel Foster's heart shattering in that instant. The pain, the disbelief, the utter devastation. It was as if her soul was ripping apart right in front of him. Every feeling she was going through slammed into him like a wave crashing over the shore.

He wanted to do something. He wanted to rush in, pull Foster away from the door, and shield her from what she was witnessing. He wanted to yell at Fitz, rip him away from Stina, and make him understand how much pain he had just caused. But he didn't move. He couldn't.

Foster didn't move either. She just stood there, her body trembling, as if she was trying to make sense of what she was seeing. Her lips were pressed tightly together, her chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. The shock in her expression was so pure, so raw, that it made Keefe's stomach turn.

The longer he stood there, the angrier he became. The fury boiling up inside of him was almost unbearable. He felt helpless. He couldn't stop this. He couldn't stop Fitz from betraying like this.

Foster's eyes remained locked on them, and Keefe could feel her soul aching as she processed the scene unfolding before her. Her body stiffened even more, the pain pouring out of her in waves, and Keefe almost couldn't bear to feel it.

Without a word, Foster turned and fled.

She didn't look back. She didn't glance over her shoulder as she rushed for the door. It was as though she was trying to escape the heartbreak, trying to outrun the agony that had been forced upon her.

Keefe didn't think. He couldn't. He didn't even hesitate.

He pushed past the doorframe and sprinted after her.

Foster's feet pounded against the floor as she ran. She wasn't even looking where she was going. She was just moving, as if her body couldn't keep up with her mind, the emotions inside her forcing her forward.

Keefe's heart raced as he chased after her. His mind screamed at him to catch up, to do something—anything—to stop her from running. To help her.

But Foster was faster. She was already near the exit, her hand reaching for the door handle.

"Wait," Keefe called out, but his voice didn't seem to reach her. She didn't hear him. She couldn't.

She flung the door open, her face still turned away from him, and for a split second, Keefe was sure she didn't even know he was there. His fingers brushed the edge of the door just as it swung open, but he couldn't catch her in time.

His heart dropped as he watched her disappear, her footsteps echoing in the distance as she ran out of the café, leaving him behind.

Keefe stood there for a moment, his chest tight, his mind racing. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't just let her go. Not like this. Not after everything.

His eyes burned with the intensity of his emotions, the fury he felt for Fitz, the overwhelming need to protect Sophie, and the helplessness of being unable to fix any of it. He wanted to scream, to yell at Fitz, to tell him what an idiot he was for doing this to her. But it wouldn't help. It wouldn't make Foster feel better. Nothing could.

Instead, Keefe stood there for a moment longer, the weight of the situation sinking into his bones. He wasn't going to leave her alone. Not like this.

Not ever.