“Ready?” he asks.
“As I’ll ever be.”
We pull onto the road, the town slowly waking around us. The sea glints in the distance, quiet and familiar. I rest my cheek against his back, inhaling, and my chest feels tight, not from the wind but from the ache of wanting something I shouldn’t.
He’s just my best friend. That’s what I remind myself as the bike roars down the street, the world slipping away behind us. Just my best friend. Nothing more.
The key sticks a little in the lock before it turns, the old brass catching as if the building itself needs time to wake up. Liam gives it a shove with his shoulder, and the door opens with a low groan, letting in a sweep of cold morning air. The bell above the door jangles.
He flips on the lights. The soft glow spills over tables, counters coated in a thin film of dust, chairs stacked two high. The air tastes stale, like old coffee grounds and wood polish.
It’s like the place is always dusty, no matter how much we clean.
“All right,” Liam says, rubbing his palms together, voice echoing through the room. “Let’s get started.”
He sets down the little portable speaker he carries everywhere and scrolls through his phone until an easy tune fills the room. Billy Joel. He grabs a rag and starts wiping down the counter.
Dust swirls like smoke in the light cutting through the front windows. There’s a rhythm to it—the way we move around each other, the music and the squeak of rags, the scrape of chairs as they’re set right.
Liam hums as he works, a low sound under his breath. Every now and then, he glances over, that easy half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’s caught me doing something funny.
The smell of cocoa clings to the wood behind the counter.
The last few weeks since reopening, it’s been busier than anyone expected. More foot traffic from the crews rebuilding down by the docks, more curious locals, more chatter.
By the time the clock hits seven, the front windows glow gold with sunrise. Liam props the door open to let the air move through. The morning wind carries the scent of damp leaves and rain on pavement.
At half past seven, in walks a girl with a head full of copper curls and freckles across her nose. “Hey, hey,” she calls, her voice bright. “Did you guys sleep in here or something? Last in, first out, huh?”
“It’s called professionalism,” Liam says, tossing her a towel. “You’re late, Jess.”
She catches it one-handed and laughs. “I brought the good energy. You’re welcome.”
Jessica Lake has been working here for the last three months. She’s quick, talks fast, and always has her eyeliner perfect, even at ungodly hours. She’s the kind of person who knows everyone’sbusiness but somehow makes you like her for it. Liam’s mother is totally obsessed with her.
She ducks behind the counter to check the machines, talking nonstop about how her brother finally fixed her car, how she heard the mayor’s new dog chewed through his office couch. Liam keeps making sarcastic comments that bounce right off her. I wipe down the pastry case, watching the sunlight climb higher, warming the glass.
The back door opens and in comes Maren, carrying two trays stacked with boxes, steam curling out from the cracks. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, hair tied up in that effortless knot she’s worn since I’ve known her.
“Morning, loves,” she says, and the whole room softens.
“Hey, Mom!” Liam smiles at her.
The smell hits first—cinnamon, butter, sugar. She bakes for the café every morning now, and the pastries are half the reason people come. Scones flecked with lemon zest, chocolate croissants that melt the moment you bite in, little apple turnovers that never last past noon.
She unloads them on the counter, kisses Liam’s cheek, and gives me a quick hug that leaves my sweater dusted with flour.
The morning rush trickles in slow. A couple of workers from the rebuilding crews. Two teachers from the elementary school who always sit in the corner booth and whisper about their students.
Jessica handles the espresso machine like a magician, foam swirling perfectly. Liam works the register, greeting everyone by name. I float between tables, learning the rhythm of serving again.
The bell above the door rings and I glance up.
Jake Marshall steps in—the youngest mayor the town’s ever had, his tie slightly crooked, hair damp like he just showered and forgot to dry it. He grins when he sees Liam and orderstwo coffees and one of Maren’s apple turnovers. The town still whispers about how he’s managing to run things after the fires, how he’s gotten the permits fast-tracked for rebuilding. But in person, he’s just… Jake. Friendly, unflappable.
“Morning, Millie,” he says when I hand him his order. “Place looks great.”
“Thanks,” I answer, trying not to spill the foam on the lid.
