I reach inside my apron for my notepad, the one I always use at work. My fingers tremble as I flip to the first page. The words are already there, written neatly in black ink:
Hello,
I’m Deaf and don’t speak, but I can lip-read and I use a hearing aid. Please write your order or speak clearly. Thank you for understanding.
I slide it toward him with unsteady hands.
He doesn’t touch it.
His gaze lingers on the words, then he speaks—low, deliberate.
“Iced Americano. To go.”
His voice cuts through me.
I hear it clearly through the static of my hearing aid.
Deep. Smooth. Calm.
It slides down my spine, coils around my ribs, and presses in. My stomach knots like I’ve swallowed barbed wire—sharp and twisting. I should be worried, even terrified. I just saw this man beat someone to a pulp in a dark alley. And yet... my body betrays me. It leans toward him as if it recognizes something, as if it craves more of what it should fear. I hate it. I hate how much I feel him— I shouldn’t, not after everything I’ve been through.
My head nods stiffly, my hands moving on autopilot as I type in his order. My fingers stumble across the register, clumsy, jittery. My breath refuses to steady.
He pays with a black American Express card—of course, he does. What makes my heart stutter isn’t the card, but the number flashing on the tip screen. For a seven-dollar coffee, he leaves a tip so outrageous my mouth parts and snaps shut again before I can stop myself. No one has ever tipped me that much. Not once, in all the years I’ve worked here.
I glance up, startled, and his eyes are already on me. Waiting. Measuring. The tilt of his head says he’s enjoying my fumbling, like he’s watching me unravel piece by piece. Is this a game? A bribe to keep my mouth shut about what I saw? Or something worse, something that feels too close to being prey under a predator’s gaze?
I look away quickly, heat prickling my neck. My chest squeezes tighter as I turn to make his order, but I can feel him watching, following the small, nervous movements of my hands.
Too closely, too intently. I don’t understand him, and I also don’t understand why he’s here.
Why does he look at me like that?
Why does he make me feel like this?
When I hand him the cup, I’m careful so our fingers don’t touch. My hands are trembling anyway, and he notices. His gaze flickers down, catching the shake in me like it’s his to own.
And then, just like that, he turns and leaves.
The tension in my chest doesn’t leave with him.
“Okay, wow,” Megan’s voice breaks through, suddenly at my side. “Why does he smell so good?”
He did. He smelled good—too good. His scent still lingers, rich and dark, even against the wall of roasted coffee and pastries.
“And the Black card?” she continues, wide-eyed. “Oh, he’s rich-rich.” She pauses, narrowing her eyes at me. “Do you guys… know each other?”
I shake my head quickly, avoiding her stare, burying myself back into work. My throat is tight, my heart racing too fast.
Shit.
I didn’t even thank him for the tip.
* * *
I step inside the apartment, exhaustion clinging to me like a second skin. My body feels heavy; my thoughts are even heavier. But then the warm scent of soy sauce and garlic wraps around me like a blanket. Comforting. Familiar. Home.
Tyler is in the kitchen—our cramped excuse for one, barely more than a counter and a few mismatched cabinets. Somehow, he always manages to make it work. There’s always something sizzling, steaming, or simmering, turning our shoebox into something that feels alive.
