I huffed. “I’ll need it. Most days, Lois goes to my grandpa’s when I’m at work or when Tilly’s at school. He loves having her. Spoils her rotten.” I shook my head. “Today was a test run. For all of us.”
Eliza’s smile softened. “She’s lucky.”
“So are we,” I said, then caught myself. “I mean—Tilly and me.”
“I know what you meant,” she said gently.
“Yeah,” I said, quietly. And for a second, everything around us felt still, like the morning was holding its breath. She adjusted her tote, the light catching her just right, and I realized these were the things that stayed with you—the unremarkable moments, easy and unguarded. Not because they demanded attention. Because they didn’t, the park hummed softly around us—distant laughter, the creak of swings—and she moved through it the same way she always did with Tilly at the Coffee Cabin: patient, warm, never talking down, like kindness was something she carried without thinking about it even though she hid it behind sarcasm and jokes.
“Well,” she said finally, stepping back, “tell Lois I’m rooting for the couch.”
I smiled. “I won’t.”
“See you, Nate.”
“See you, Eliza.”
She headed toward town, and I watched her go longer than necessary, hoping she really did feel better.
It struck me then that she looked different outside the Coffee Cabin—lighter somehow, like the morning hadn’t askedanything of her yet, like this version of her belonged to herself. The thought settled quietly in my chest, warm and unexpected all at once.
“Daddy?” Tilly called from the top of the slide.
I looked up.
“She’s nice,” she added, like this was a conclusion she’d been working toward. “You should make her grilled cheese. Or spaghetti!”
I laughed, pushing to my feet. “Yeah,” I said softly. “Maybe I will someday.”
Chapter 4
Eliza
Acouple of days after running into Nate at the park, I was back in the grocery store parking lot before dawn, the town still dark and quiet in that way that felt like a shared secret. The sky hung low and blue, more night than morning, and the cold bit just enough to make my breath fog as I stepped out of the car and shut the door softly, like Honeybrook Hollow might still be sleeping and I didn’t want to be the one to wake it. The town looked different at this hour. No traffic. Nobody milling about. Just streetlights humming and the faint sound of something mechanical in the distance. I wrapped my coat tighter around myself and crossed the lot, my boots echoing more than they should have, each step a reminder that I was up early on purpose. The Coffee Cabin didn’t open for another hour, but I liked these mornings—the ones that belonged to me before the world started asking for things.
The automatic doors slid open with a quiet whoosh, warm air spilling out to meet me. Inside, the grocery store felt suspended in time. Fluorescent lights buzzed gently overhead, casting everything in a pale glow. The floors were freshly mopped, the faint scent of cleaner mixing with produce and bakery bread. Asoft, indistinct song played over the speakers, something slow and forgettable, perfect for not thinking too hard.
I grabbed a cart and started down my usual route, hands resting on the handle as the wheels squeaked softly in protest. Milk, eggs, heavy cream, butter—my body moved on autopilot, the rhythm familiar enough that my thoughts wandered despite my best efforts to keep them focused on inventory and prep lists. Mornings like this had a way of sneaking up on me, letting feelings drift in when I wasn’t watching closely enough.
I told myself to think about work. About opening the Coffee Cabin. About the day ahead.
I didn’t, not really.
I was halfway down the dairy aisle, reaching for my second carton of heavy cream, when I heard my name.
“Eliza?”
It took a second for it to register—low, familiar, threaded with surprise. I turned, carton in hand, and there they were.
Nate stood a few feet away, one hand resting on the handle of a grocery cart, the other tucked into the pocket of a soft gray sweatshirt. A beanie was pulled low over his dark hair, like he’d dressed in the dark and trusted instinct to take care of the rest. He looked tired in the honest, unguarded way—eyes a little shadowed, mouth already curved into a smile anyway. The kind of tired that came from being up because someone else needed you. I wasn’t prepared for how good he looked—rumpled and tired, the kind of handsome that sneaks up on you when you’re not paying attention. He smiled at Tilly, patient and unhurried, and I had to remind myself not to linger on the way he carried himself, like being kind was something inherent instead of something he pretended to be.
In front of him, tucked into the cart like a prized possession, was Tilly.
She was bundled in a cozy fleece-lined hoodie, a pink beanie slipping slightly to one side, wisps of sleep-tousled hair escaping near her ears. Her stuffed reindeer was clutched under one arm, his antlers peeking out like he’d insisted on coming along. Her free hand held tight to the side of the cart as she peered at me with solemn curiosity.
“Well,” Nate said, voice warm despite the hour. “This feels like fate or extremely good timing.”
I laughed softly. “You’re up early.”
