“Coffee,” he says at last. “Decaf.”
A few people glance over at him, then subtly straighten, clearing their throats like they’ve suddenly remembered where they are and who they’re standing near. I have a feeling he’s going to be terrible for sales—and even worse for fun—but I pour him a decaf coffee anyway and slide it across the bar.
“Relaxing after a long day?” I venture.
He gives a small nod. “There are better and worse ways to accomplish it.”
That catches my attention.
I arch an eyebrow as I turn to serve another customer, filling a beer without breaking rhythm. When I look back, my gaze betrays me, tracing the line of Wes’s body—the way his shirt pulls across his chest, how his posture broadens his shoulders,the quiet authority in the way he stands like the room belongs to him.
Heat rises to my cheeks. I lick my bottom lip before I can stop myself.
Wes notices.
His brow lifts slightly, but it’s his eyes that change—darkening, sharpening, something hot flickering there before he reins it in. Controlled. Always controlled.
I clear my throat, grasping for neutrality.
“Maybe you could outline the better ways,” I say lightly. “I’m new to life at the Ridgehouse. I could use a few pointers.”
The words hang between us—innocent enough to anyone listening.
But his gaze stays locked on mine, steady and unreadable, as if he knows exactly how many meanings I just layered into that sentence.
I pour him a decaf coffee and slide it across the bar. He wraps his hand around the mug, fingers steady, posture unchanged.
“Long day?” I ask.
“Full,” he says. “That’s usually enough.”
I nod, then turn to serve someone else, keeping my movements smooth even though I can feel him there. When I glance back, his attention hasn’t drifted. It never really does.
“You seem to fit in here,” he says after a moment. Not a compliment. An observation.
I blink, caught off guard. “Do I?”
“You move easily between people,” he continues. “You listen. That matters in places like this.”
Heat blooms low in my chest, not from flirtation this time, but from being seen. “I like it,” I admit. “I like helping. Making things feel… lighter, I guess.”
He studies me over the rim of his mug. “Is that what you want to do long-term?”
The question settles between us, heavier than the coffee. I lean my elbows lightly on the counter, lowering my voice without thinking. “I’m still figuring that out. I grew up with expectations. Uniforms. Timelines.” I shrug. “This feels different. Like I can choose how I show up.”
His jaw tightens slightly, as if something resonates there. “Choosing your own reason is harder than following orders.”
I meet his gaze, surprised by how personal that sounds. “But worth it?”
He doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is quieter. “Yes.”
Our eyes hold. Not charged with heat this time, but with something steadier. Deeper.
Someone calls my name down the bar, breaking the moment. I straighten, already reaching for the next order.
When I look back at him, he’s still there, coffee untouched, gaze on me like he’s just learned something he wasn’t expecting to care about.
And for reasons I don’t fully understand yet, that feels like a beginning.
