She pours without ceremony. Black coffee and just a splash of cream. Slides it across the counter like a quiet kindness. I wrap both hands around the cup, letting the heat sink into my palms.
I turn, scanning for an empty table…
And that’s when I seethem.
Dakota Fletcher is tucked into a corner booth near the window, a pencil in her hand, a small sketchbook open in front of her.
She’s laughing, head tipped back just enough that the light catches her face. There’s a child’s crayon drawing spread across the table beside her coffee. It looks bright and messy and loved.
Three men surround her.
Clint sits beside her, broad shoulders angled outward. A barrier he doesn’t even realize he’s maintaining. His hand rests at the small of her back, possessive without being restrictive.
He watches the room more than he watches her, but every time she leans into him, his posture shifts, softening by a fraction.
Sawyer is across from them, glasses pushed up his nose, explaining something animatedly with his hands while Dakota watches him with quiet amusement. He keeps stopping mid-sentence to smile at her, like he forgets where he was going whenever she looks at him too long.
Reid sprawls at the end of the booth, boots crossed, grin easy and bright. He nudges Dakota’s foot with his own, earning a gentle kick in return, and laughs like that’s exactly the reaction he was hoping for.
It’s subtle.
If you weren’t looking for it, you might miss how naturally they move around each other. How no one flinches when Dakota turns from one man to the next. How there’s no hesitation, no tension, no accounting.
But I’m looking.
I always notice patterns. I notice rhythms. I notice how living things orient themselves toward safety.
They move like they know exactly where they belong.
I choose a table near the window, close enough to observe without staring. I don’t mean to listen. I don’t need to. The body language tells me everything.
Dakota leans into Clint, then reaches across the table to steal a bite of Sawyer’s pastry without apology. Reid watches her do it like it’s the highlight of his morning. No one looks offended. No one looks threatened.
They’re settled.
The word lands in my chest, warm and unexpected.
I take a sip of coffee, watching steam curl upward, and my thoughts drift, uninvited but persistent, to Wyatt’s quiet steadiness, Marshall’s calming presence, Jesse’s warmth thatfeels like sunlight you didn’t realize you were missing until it hits your skin.
Different men. Different ways of loving.
And yet.
Dakota laughs again, softer this time, and her posture loosens as all three men lean in at once, a shared moment so ordinary for them and so startling for me.
No one looks like they’re competing.
No one looks like they’re bracing for loss.
I watch them for another minute, maybe two, until the moment feels complete in the way some things do. A chapter ending, not a cliffhanger.
Dakota gathers her sketchbook, sliding the pencil behind her ear. Clint stands first, instinctively stepping half a pace closer to her before she even rises. Sawyer stacks the plates, habit over necessity, and Reid grabs the empty cups, joking about being promoted to “official café busboy.”
They move together when they leave.
I finish my coffee, thinking about Wyatt’s hands, careful and precise. He’s always aware of what he’s holding.
About Marshall’s presence, the way he fills a room without raising his voice, how safety seems to follow him like a shadow.
