My fingers traced the edge of the counter possessively. The wood was smooth from years of touch, warm despite the winter chill. I'd never owned much in my life, and technically I didn't own this place either. But in these quiet moments, it felt like mine, every creaking board, every decoration, every mismatched mug.
I loved this café with a fierceness that sometimes scared me. It was more than a job; it was the closest thing to home I'd ever known. The place where I belonged, where I mattered. Where my happiness wasn't just armor but a gift I could genuinely give. If that meant carrying the weight of running it alone and that exhaustion seeped into my bones like the coffee stains on my apron, I'd bear it. This place was worth every aching muscle, every missed night of sleep, every moment of wondering if I was doing enough.
The clock above the door, which ran five minutes fast despite my constant adjustments, showed 6:50 AM. Ten minutes until opening. Ten minutes until my private kingdom became a public haven again. I straightened my shoulders, adjusted my pinkdress, and checked my smile in the reflection of the espresso machine. Perfect. Bright. Absolutely convincing.
The Hearth Café was ready for another day. And so was I.
Chapter two
Simone
The bell above the door jingled precisely at seven, like the universe had synchronized watches with my coffee timer. First through the door was Mr. Graves, fitting name for a lich who'd been dead longer than America had been a country. His suit was the same faded charcoal he'd worn every day since I'd started working here, his skeletal fingers clutching a leather briefcase that probably contained secrets older than dirt.
"Good morning, Mr. Graves!" I called over the counter, already pouring his usual into the mug that kept cold thingscold, a necessity for a customer who preferred his coffee at the temperature of a crypt.
"Miss Parker." He nodded, hollow eye sockets somehow still conveying weariness. He settled at his usual corner table, bones creaking like rusty hinges.
I delivered his coffee, watching as he stirred it with a yellowed finger bone that was definitely not attached to his hand. "Fresh pot today. Ethiopian blend."
He grimaced, as much as a skull can grimace. "It's too lively. Tastes of sunshine and hope. Revolting."
"I'll make it more depressing tomorrow, just for you," I promised with a wink.
The door jingled again, and the morning avalanche began. A trio of witches in business suits, arguing about mercury retrograde. Two werewolves in flannel with snow melting on their fur. A vampire hiding behind sunglasses despite the overcast day, clutching a thermos I knew contained something thicker than coffee.
I moved like a caffeinated ballet dancer, pouring, stirring, remembering that Mrs. Whisperwind needed exactly three pumps of vanilla, that the centaur preferred his scone warmed for precisely seventeen seconds, that the banshee sisters would share a large mocha but needed separate cups because they refused to drink after each other since "The Incident" last summer.
"Camille, your soy latte with cinnamon is up! Derek, that haunting in your basement sounds concerning, have you tried sage? Marissa, your daughter passed her enchantment exam? That's wonderful!"
Names, lives, stories, I collected them all, storing them readily. It was easier to remember everyone else's details than to dwell on the emptiness of my own life.
The front door slammed open with enough force to rattle the fairy lights. Silas had arrived.
"I," he announced to the entire café, "am operating on four hours of sleep and enough eyeliner to paint the moon black. Anyone who complains about waiting for their pastry will be cursed with dry, flaky skin for a week."
Every head turned to watch him strut toward the counter. Today's look was particularly dramatic, fishnet arm warmers beneath a tight black t-shirt, ripped black jeans that looked painted on, silver chains connecting his lip ring to the multiple hoops in his left ear, and eyeliner so sharp it could probably cut glass. His demon heritage showed in the small obsidian horns peeking through his dyed-black hair and the swishing spaded tail behind him.
He carried three trays of pastries with insulting ease, balancing them like they weighed nothing. Each creation was more gorgeous than the last, berry tarts that sparkled with sugar, gingerbread creatures that occasionally twitched, black cocoa cookies with blood-red centers.
"You're late," I whispered as he slid behind the counter.
"I'm worth waiting for," he replied, arranging his masterpieces in the display case with the precision of a surgeon.
A harpy with iridescent feathers that changed color with her mood leaned across the counter, her wings fluffing out in what I recognized as her flirting posture. Currently, they shimmered with pinks and purples, horny harpy colors.
"Silas, darling," she cooed, "those fingers of yours work magic on more than just pastry dough?"
"Mmm, Vivienne." He didn't look up from his arrangement, but his tail, flicked visibly behind him. "If you're wondering if I'll make you my signature black forest cake for your birthday next week, the answer is yes. If you're asking about my fingers in other contexts, the answer isstillno."
Her feathers rippled with blue disappointment, but her smile remained. "Can't blame a girl for trying, especially when you're looking particularly delicious today."
I ducked between them with practiced ease. "Vivienne, your usual iced tea with extra honey is ready."
The morning rush crescendoed. I juggled orders, wiped spills, and maintained peace like a one-woman supernatural UN. When a werewolf in a lumberjack coat and a vampire in a tailored blazer both reached for the last cinnamon roll, I materialized between them before growls could escalate to bared teeth.
"Gentlemen," I said, voice sweet but firm, "I believe Silas just pulled a fresh batch from the oven. Perhaps you could each have one that hasn't been touched by... competing scents?"
Crisis averted with minimal snarling. Just another Tuesday.
