“This café was always meant to be a place where people can start over,” I say. “Even the ones who don’t think they deserve to.”
He nods once, slowly.
“I will try not to disgrace your mission, Sage.”
I manage a small smile. “Good. Because Anya will personally remove you if you scare Mrs. Henderson.”
His eyes slide toward his daughter at the pastry case, then back to me. “That, I believe.”
I leave him there, watching the town, and the tension in my chest feels a little lighter for it.
By midafternoon, the rush slows to a warm, steady flow.
The playlist we put together last night drifts from the speakers. Kids trade coloring pages. Someone starts a quiet game of cards near the fireplace. The air smells like espresso, vanilla, sugar, and the faint citrus scent of the cleaner we used on the tables this morning.
My feet ache. My back twinges. My shoulders are tight in that familiar, satisfying way that comes from a day spent doing exactly what I was made to do.
Leo finally gives in to a longer nap, and I ease him into the small portable bassinet we set up behind the counter. Vega sprawls beside it like a furry, overprotective guard.
Luka appears at my elbow with a glass of water. “Drink,” he says. “Then sit for five minutes before you fall down.”
I give him a mock glare but take the glass. The water is cold and perfect. I drain half of it in one go.
“How are you holding up?” he asks.
I glance around at Hope standing with Jenny, their heads bent together over the register as they tally an early count. At Anya laughing with a group of college students. At Nikolay pretending to steal a muffin from Misha’s hand and barely dodging the swat that follows. At Isaak by the window, still watching all of it with a face that almost looks content.
“I’m good,” I say. “Really good.”
His gaze softens. “You deserve it.”
“So do you. You built this with me.”
“Perhaps.” His mouth curves. “Although I recall begging you to hire more staff when you insisted you could do everything yourself.”
“You always want more backup,” I tease.
“I always want you to have protection,” he corrects, voice low. “In every room. In every part of your life.”
The words sink into me, warm and heavy. The kind that feels like a blanket instead of a stone. “I know. And I do. Look around.”
He does. His eyes move over the room and the people in it, then back to me. A quiet change touches his expression, a subtle deepening.
“You have built more than a business,” he says. “You have built a small empire of stubborn people who would go to war for you.”
I tilt my head. “Are you including yourself in that group?”
He gives me that look that says the answer should be obvious.
“Always.”
The last customer leaves a little after nine.
Jenny flips the sign on the door from Open to Closed with a flourish and a dramatic sigh. “My feet have formed a union,” she announces. “They are filing official complaints with management.”
“Take a bath and you will survive,” Anya says, already stacking chairs onto tables to make sweeping easier. “You are young.”
“My feet disagree,” Jenny mutters, but she starts clearing plates.
