“Coming right up.”
I claim my favorite stool at the counter, positioned where I can see both the entrance and the window. Where I can watch for him. I feel ridiculous. Two months of dating Zayn, with actual plans and shared jokes and goodnight kisses that linger and I still act like a lovesick teenager.
The espresso machine hisses and steams, the soundtrack of our mornings together. We’ve fallen into this rhythm so naturally it occasionally terrifies me. Coffee before work. Texts during lunch breaks. Dinner together three or four nights a week. Piece by piece, we’re building something I never believed I’d have again.
The door chimes and I glance up too quickly. Zayn enters wearing his charcoal work suit with that cobalt tie that makes his stormy eyes practically luminescent. His dark hair looks slightly disheveled, like he just dragged his fingers through it, and something about that tiny detail makes my pulse accelerate. He scans the café, and when his gaze finds me, his professional expression melts into a smile that radiates pure warmth.
I watch him navigate toward me, weaving between tables with with ease after so many mornings doing the same thing. Two months of this daily routine has made everything feel more real.
“Hey,” he says in that low, sleep-rough voice as he settles onto the stool beside me.
“Hey yourself,” I respond, attempting casual despite my racing heart. Our knees brush under the counter, and this time I don’t instinctively pull away. That’s progress.
Tara delivers my coffee in my special mug—the one with delicate roses painted around the rim, echoing the actual roses blooming at our cliff spot.
“Thanks, Tara,” I say, cradling the warm ceramic between my palms. The heat seeps into my cold fingers.
Tara grins as she starts preparing Zayn’s order. “Black with one sugar, right?” She winks at me when he’s not looking. Heat creeps up my neck. Everyone in Bellrose knows we’re back together. I expected to hate the scrutiny and whispers, but surprisingly, I don’t mind.
“Did you sleep at all?” Zayn asks quietly. He slides his hand across the counter toward mine, not grabbing it, just putting it there if I want it.
I brush my fingers against his, and electricity tingles up my arm. “Barely. I took in a foster puppy last night. Eight weeks old and convinced the entire neighborhood needed to hear his opinions.”
His eyes crinkle with amusement. “How did Mia react?”
“Grumbled for about an hour, then apparently decided maternal duty called. They were curled up together when I left.” I sip my latte, leaving a faint lipstick print on the rim. “What about you? You look exhausted.”
He runs his hand through his hair, further disheveling it. “Conference call with a client in Ohio. Time zones are inconvenient.” His fingers drift closer to mine. “But worth it—cleared my schedule for our hike this weekend.”
My heart does a little skip hearing that. I’ve been looking forward to our Saturday hike on Cliffside Trail all week.
Mrs. Peterson totters past our table, her minuscule Chihuahua peering regally from her designer purse. “Morning, lovebirds,” she chirps with an enormous smile. “Gorgeous day, isn’t it?”
I duck my head, face burning, but Zayn responds smoothly. “Absolutely beautiful, Mrs. Peterson. How’s King recovering from his checkup?”
“Wonderful! Sophie’s specialized diet completely resolved his digestive issues.” She pats my shoulder affectionately as she passes. “You two make such a lovely couple.”
When she’s out of earshot, I glance up at Zayn. “I can’t set foot anywhere in this town without someone commenting on us.”
“Does that bother you?” he asks, expression shifting to concern. He always checks my comfort level. Always making sure I’m okay and prepared to give me space if I need it.
I consider this, stirring my coffee with the wooden stick. “No,” I finally admit, surprised by how genuine it feels. “It’s actually kind of nice.”
His smile unfolds slowly, looking so authentic it makes my chest ache. Tara sets his coffee down, and we finally lace our fingers together on the counter. His hand fits against mine like it was designed for exactly this purpose.
“Still confirmed for The Pearl Thursday night?” he asks, his thumb tracing lazy circles on my skin that send pleasant shivers up my arm.
“Only if you promise not to wear that tie,” I tease, reaching up to straighten it. “Blue really doesn’t suit you.”
“According to whom?” he counters, eyes dancing.
I roll my eyes theatrically. “According to the woman who’s catalogued every shade of blue you own over the past two months.”
He laughs, rich and genuine. “Fine, fine. No blue tie Thursday. But you’re wearing that emerald dress.”
“We’ll see,” I say, my smile betraying me completely.
We sit there drinking coffee, discussing mundane things. He tells me about a complex contract dispute he’s mediating. I describe the elderly cat with kidney issues we’re treating. He volunteers to investigate the rattling noise my car’s been making. It feels so… normal. Not like before, when everything between us felt desperately intense and fragile, like handling explosives.
