The Honey Crumbsmells like cinnamon and fresh bread and something sweet baking in the back.
Maeve looks up from behind the counter when we walk in, silver hair pulled back in its usual braid. Her eyes go from me to Tessa to the determined set of my jaw, and a knowing smile crosses her face.
She’s known me since I was a kid. Probably knows exactly what I’m thinking right now.
“Elijah Smith. Tessa Lang.” She’s already reaching for plates. “Sit. I’ll bring you something.”
“I can order—” Tessa starts.
“You’ll eat what I bring you.” Maeve’s tone brooks no argument. She’s looking at Tessa with that expression she gets—part maternal, part all-seeing. “You’ve lost weight, girl. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
Tessa’s cheeks flush. “I’ve been busy?—”
“Busy doesn’t mean you skip meals. Sit.”
We sit.
The corner booth is small, intimate. Warm light from the frosted windows, the smell of bread and honey, a quiet that feels different from the silence in my workshop. Tessa slides in across from me, and I’m suddenly aware of how close we are. How her scent is filling the small space. How the lavender is winning out over the citrus now, softening around the edges.
She looks smaller somehow. Younger. Without the armor of her clipboard and spreadsheets, without the constant motion that usually surrounds her, she’s just a woman. A tired woman who works too hard and takes care of everyone except herself.
“You don’t have to babysit me,” she says, but there’s no real heat in it. “I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself.”
“I know.”
“I just get focused. When there’s a lot to do.”
“I know.”
She glares at me. I let her. It’s better than the alternative—better than reaching across the table and taking her hand, telling her she doesn’t have to do everything alone.
Maeve arrives with two plates piled high—thick sandwiches on fresh bread, still-warm scones, apple slices with honey on the side. She sets them down without ceremony, then adds two mugs of something steaming and rich-smelling. Hot cider, from the smell of it. Cinnamon and cloves.
“Eat,” she says. Her hand rests briefly on Tessa’s shoulder—a touch that’s somehow both gentle and firm. “And slow down, girl. The world won’t end if you take an hour for yourself.”
She disappears back behind the counter, but I catch her glancing at us. Still watching. Still knowing.
For a moment, Tessa just stares at the food. Her throat moves as she swallows, and I wonder when the last time someone took care of her like this. Made her stop. Made her eat. Made her feel like she mattered more than her to-do list.
Then the tension drains out of her shoulders, and she picks up half the sandwich.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For this. For catching me earlier. For...” She waves a hand vaguely. “Everything, I guess.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I know. I’m doing it anyway.” She takes a bite, and her eyes close briefly. A small sound escapes her—something between a sigh and a moan—and heat crawls up my spine. “God, this is good. I forgot food could taste like this.”
I eat my own sandwich and try not to watch her too obviously. Try not to notice the way she hums a little when shebites into the scone. The way her scent is going sweeter, warmer, with every passing minute. The way she licks a drop of honey off her thumb without thinking about it.
She has no idea what she’s doing to me. No idea how hard I’m working to keep my breathing steady, my hands on my own food, my eyes on my own plate.
Three years I’ve been watching this woman. Three years of wanting something I never thought I could have.
“Elijah.” She’s looking at me now, head tilted. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Why are you doing this?” She gestures vaguely at the plates, the bakery, everything. “The lunch, walking me around, making sure I eat. You don’t have to.”
