Still.
All I know is that I want to keep being the guy who shows up with donuts.
“Did Charlie tell you how busy we were this weekend?” she asks again, softer this time, like she’s making sure I actually heard her and wasn’t just standing there thinking deeply inappropriate thoughts about baked goods.
“Yeah,” I say. “He did. Sounds like it was kind of amazing. Those posts took off.”
Her mouth curves, slow and almost disbelieving. “They really did. It’s funny. I spent so long assuming everything that could go wrong would. Then suddenly…” She gestures vaguely, like she doesn’t quite trust the words yet. “I don’t know. It feels like someone turned on a light.”
I nod, because I get that feeling more than I should. “Yeah, lights,” I echo, wanting to contribute something useful instead of just standing here admiring her problem-solving face.
“I wasn’t sure about any of this at first,” she goes on, warming to the idea now, “but I got an email from your PR team this morning. They liked the video, too. They think we should do more.” Her eyes flick up to mine, bright with possibility. “It got me thinking maybe we could do a workshop here.Something special with you at first, but then I can roll it over into something regular.”
She’s talking logistics. Scheduling. Sustainability. Me? I’m watching the way her hands move as she talks, the way she lights up when an idea clicks into place, the quiet confidence underneath it all.
“I’m in,” I say immediately. No hesitation. No strategy. Just truth, because if she asked me to show up early, stay late, move furniture, water plants, explain hockey to a roomful of strangers, or help with something that didn’t exist yet but mattered to her? I’d say yes to all of it. I’d be in for anything she offered.
Her mouth curves in a small, pleased smile before she looks down at the counter, riffling through a stack of papers like she’s suddenly aware of her own enthusiasm. A flyer catches my eye before she realizes what she’s doing.
Block letters. A school logo. Something about a Father-Son Breakfast.
Her fingers freeze, and she moves quickly. Like lightning, really, and she flips it over. Smooth. Very smooth, but I saw.
“And your weekend was good?” she asks, suddenly. More deflection. I’m starting to see a pattern. “The away games?”
I can’t help it—I laugh. “You care?”
“No.” She lifts her chin, fighting a losing battle with a grin. “But Theo does. Talked about it all weekend.”
“Well, then.” Something in my chest gives a small, traitorous ache and I smile. “We won one. Lost one. The win was great. The loss…” I shrug. “I hate losing.”
“Theo does, too,” she says. “Says he feels panicky and like he’s failed. I always have to remind him it’s not the end of the world if he loses, but we do try to find a positive takeaway when we can.”
“My cousin, Campbell,” I say. “He’s the team captain and also good at reminding me I’m not actually dying.”
“Didn’t realize it was a family affair for you.” She smiles. “What about your parents?”
I hesitate, just a fraction. “Before my dad passed away, I would talk to him about hockey all the time.”
Her gaze softens. Not with pity, but with understanding, the kind that doesn’t rush in to smooth the edges or make it smaller than it is.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.
“Yeah,” I say. “Me, too.”
The words sit between us for a second. I should probably stop there. Keep it light. Keep it moving. But something about this moment feels steady. Like the floor isn’t going to drop out if I take one more step.
“I know it probably sounds stupid,” I add, rubbing the back of my neck, “but I still talk to him.”
I pull my phone from my pocket and open the text thread that never closes, the one with messages sent into the void. Then I hand it to her.
Juliette takes it carefully, like she understands she’s holding something fragile. Her eyes move over the screen—dates, short updates, dumb little thoughts, things that don’t need answers to matter. She doesn’t comment. She doesn’t rush. She just reads.
When she looks back up at me, her expression is gentle but sure, like she’s already decided something important.
“That doesn’t sound stupid,” she says. “It sounds like love.”
The shop seems too quiet around us then. The background noise outside dulls. The soft rustle of leaves quells. Even the space between us feels smaller somehow. Safer, almost as if something steady has bridged the distance.
