In the office I set up Poppy’s travel crib, laying her down as gently as I can. My hands are steady but my mind drifts in and out of that feverish haze, his rough shirt against my cheek, the press of his palm at the small of my back. Each flash steals my breath. I wedge a hand against my sternum, willing my heart to slow.
Counting the register, I tap each bill twice, even knowing it’s right. I tweak the espresso machine’s pressure as if it’s going rogue. The routine should calm me; instead, I feel like a hollow shell, living out someone else’s life.
At 5:12 a.m., the back door swings open. Saul pads in, too chipper for this hour.
“Morning,” he says, voice echoing off the walls.
I nod, throat tight. He stares a beat too long.
“You look like hell,” he tells me, setting down his baking trays.
“Thanks,” I mutter, turning back to the portafilter. “Coffee’s on in a minute.”
“Rough night?”
I freeze, wondering if he glimpsed my breakdown with Axel. Could he read it on my stained cheeks?
“Just tired,” I snap, sharper than I mean to be. “Lots to do.”
He’s silent, then lifts his hands in surrender. “Got it,” he says, drifting into the kitchen. Relief and guilt swirl inside me. Get it together, Sadie.
By 5:45, Finn arrives. Every surface gleams, every jar is filled, every crumb swept away. I’m obsessive, meticulous, anything to keep the ache from roaring back.
“Whoa,” Finn breathes, stepping into the café. “Did Santa’s elves show up? This place is pristine.”
I don’t look up as I line up syrup bottles. “Just the usual.”
He studies me. “You okay, boss? You seem… intense.”
“I’m fine.” I move toward the front door to check the locks again. “Really busy.”
“If you say so.” He shrugs. “But hey, killer show last night, right? That Slade guy’s voice, whoa.”
My face goes prickly and tight at the mention of Axel.
I fumble with the coffee grinder, willing him out of my head.
“It was fine,” I say flatly. “Good crowd.”
“Good crowd?” Finn laughs. “It was packed! And you two?—”
“I need you to check the milk supply,” I cut in, urgent. “Oat milk, especially.”
He blinks, then heads off. My fingers curl so tight around the dish towel they ache.
Don’t think about him. Don’t hope it’s him stepping through that door.
The morning rush crashes in like clockwork—order, brew, hand off, repeat. It’s mechanical, safe. My head clears when I focus on the next drink, the next name.
At 6:30, Rowan slips in. She watches me for a moment, biting her lip.
“How are you doing?” she asks softly, tying on her apron.
“Fine,” I say, eyes on the counter. “Busy morning.”
“Sadie,” she says, just my name, but it carries everything she’s thinking. “After last night?—”
“I said I’m fine.” I clamp down on my voice, then soften it. “Just work.”
