"Feeling's mutual," he mutters, eyeing the machine like it personally insulted his ancestors.
I sigh. "Try again. Slower this time. Actually pay attention to what you're doing instead of trying to intimidate an inanimate object."
He does. Grounds spray across the counter in a fine dark mist. Some land in the drip tray. Some land on the floor. A few specks settle on Pebble's head where she's perched on the pastry case. She flicks an ear in disgust but doesn't move.
Again.
More mess. Less espresso. A faint growl of frustration from somewhere deep in Grath's chest.
I can't watch this anymore.
I step in. Move to stand next to him, close enough that my shoulder brushes his arm. The heat of him is immediate and distracting. I ignore it. Reach up and guide his hand, massive, rough-knuckled, clenched too tight around the portafilter.
"Like this," I say quietly, adjusting his grip. "Light touch. Don't force it. You're not trying to crush it into submission. You're just... coaxing it. Gently."
His hand's warm under mine. Rough. Scarred knuckles. I can feel the tension in his wrist, the way he's trying too hard.
"Relax," I murmur, my fingers still wrapped around his wrist, feeling the thundering pulse beneath his skin. "You're fighting it. Just... breathe."
He exhales, long and slow, and I feel the shift immediately—the way his shoulders drop half an inch, the way his grip loosens just enough. The tension that had been coiling through his forearm unwinds, muscle by muscle.
"Good," I say quietly. "Now. Together."
We tamp the grounds. His hand follows mine, learning the rhythm, the pressure. I guide the portafilter into place, our movements synchronized now, no longer clumsy. Lock it in. The machine hisses softly as we pull the shot.
This one's perfect.
Rich, dark, with that golden crema on top that means everything came together just right. The kind of shot that makes all the mess and frustration worth it.
Grath stares at it like it's a miracle. Like we've just pulled moonlight out of thin air instead of a single decent espresso.
"You did it," I say, a smile tugging at my mouth despite myself.
"We did it," he corrects, his voice low and oddly reverent.
That's when I realize I'm still holding his hand. My palm pressed against his knuckles, my fingers curled around his wrist where his pulse beats steady and warm.
I snatch my hand back like I've been burned.
I let go. Step back. Wipe my palms on my apron even though they're not dirty.
"Right," I say. "So now you know espresso. Congratulations. You've achieved mediocrity."
"Thanks."
"Don't let it go to your head."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile.
The delivery truck honks outside.
Grath carriesfour fifty-pound flour sacks at once. No visible strain. No hesitation. Just hoists them onto his shoulders like they're filled with cotton instead of grain, muscles shifting beneath his shirt as he adjusts the weight.
I carry a clipboard and try very hard not to stare.
It's not working.
"Where?" he asks, barely winded.
