He takes a bite and groans softly, the sound low and genuine. My knees actually weaken. He catches me staring and raises an eyebrow.
“Something wrong?”
I clear my throat. “Just a question. Why is there coffee in the fridge?”
“Because,” he says around a grin, “you keep watering yours down to make iced coffee. I figured I’d make some in advance so you’d stop torturing good beans.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” He pushes off the counter and moves to the fridge. “Hold on, I’ll show you how it’s supposed to be done.”
He pulls out the cold coffee, fills a tall glass with ice, and pours with the kind of precision that comes from muscle memory. His movements are fluid and confident. He adds a touch of vanilla syrup, a small swirl of cream, then gives it a lazy stir with a long spoon before handing it to me.
“Try that.”
I take a sip. It’s perfect. Smooth and rich, just the right amount of sweetness.
He watches my reaction, smug. “Told you.”
“You’re infuriatingly right,” I say, smiling despite myself.
He gestures to the table. “Come on, let’s eat. You’ve got a long shift today.”
I do, half because I’m hungry and half because sitting gives me something to do with my hands besides fidgeting.
The library is still closed—smoke damage and waterlogged ceilings—so I’ve been working at his mother’s café instead. Liam helped me get the job. He’s technically the assistant manager,though most customers know him as the barista who remembers everyone’s order and somehow makes latte art that looks like portraits.
As I cut into a pancake, I glance at him. “What time did you get in last night?”
He shrugs. “Late. Maddox and I were gaming. Lost track of time.”
“Ah.” Maddox. He’s been different since the fire—quieter, more restless—but then again, so have we all.
When we finish eating, Liam rinses the dishes, humming softly. Nimbus perches on the windowsill, tail flicking in lazy swishes.
When he’s done, Liam disappears down the hall and returns a moment later with something hidden behind his back. “Got you something,” he says.
“What now?”
He reveals a motorcycle helmet, sleek black with a subtle gold stripe down the side. “Figured it was time to upgrade from the one that kept slipping.”
I reach for it, fingers brushing the glossy surface. “You didn’t have to?—”
“I wanted to.” His grin widens. “Come on, you love the bike. Admit it.”
I do. I love the rush of wind, the way the town blurs into color and sound. But I’ll never admit how much I love the feel of him in front of me, the warmth beneath my palms as I hold on.
Outside, the morning air carries a faint sweetness from the nearby bakery. The sun is still low, painting the sky in soft pinks. Liam straddles the motorcycle easily, adjusting his gloves. The machine gleams, a deep, metallic blue that catches the light like water.
“Hop on, Mills,” he says, voice teasing.
I roll my eyes, slipping the helmet on. My fingers shake just a little as I climb on behind him. The seat’s warm from the sun. He hands me his jacket without turning around.
“You’ll freeze otherwise.”
When I pull it on, it’s far too big, smelling like roasted coffee beans and something deeper, something distinctly Liam.
He starts the engine, the vibration humming beneath us. I wrap my arms around his waist, feeling the flex of muscle beneath his shirt.
