Chapter 12 Morning Grind #2
“That's actually a really good idea.”
“Don't sound so shocked. I'm occasionally capable of intelligent thought.”
“Occasionally is generous.”
He kicked me lightly with his foot. I caught his ankle. Held it. Let my thumb press against the bone there, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steady thrum of his pulse.
Two days. We'd been officially together for two days, and I was already addicted to touching him. To having him close. To this.
“You want coffee?” I asked, my voice rougher than intended.
“Obviously.”
He slid off the counter, moving around to my side with the familiarity of someone who'd spent enough time in professional kitchens to navigate them instinctively. His shoulder brushed mine as he passed. The contact sent heat through my shirt.
“Where are the good beans?”
“Left cabinet, top shelf.”
“The ones you told me were too expensive to waste on regular customers?”
“Those are the ones.”
“Derek Walsh, breaking his own rules for little old me.”
He grabbed the bag, weighing it in his hand, checking the roast date printed on the label. Measuring out grounds with casual precision, his movements economical and practiced.
“I'm touched.”
He paused. Glanced at me. Something shifted in his expression—something vulnerable and raw and open.
“You know what this means, right? We're doing couple things. Breakfast, coffee, showing up at each other's workplaces unannounced. Very domestic.”
“Is that a problem?”
“No.”
He pulled a shot. The machine hissed. Water forced through compressed grounds at nine bars of pressure. The espresso dripped into the cup, dark and thick, crema forming on the surface. The familiar sound settled something in my chest.
“Just observing. Making sure you're aware of what's happening here.”
He didn't look at me. Kept his eyes on the espresso pouring into the cup, watching the color change as the shot progressed.
“Because if you're not ready for this—for us actually being together and not just hooking up after competitions—you should probably say something now before I get too attached.”
The words hit me hard. Harder than they should have.
I moved behind him. Wrapped my arms around his waist. Pulled him back against my chest. Felt him relax into me, all that tension bleeding out of his shoulders, his head tipping back to rest against my collarbone.
“I'm ready,” I said against his ear. “More than ready. I've been ready since you walked into my café and called my latte art pretentious.”
“It was pretentious.”
“It was artistic.”
“Same thing.”
I kissed his neck. Just below his ear, where his pulse jumped against my lips. Felt him shiver, his breath catching.
“I want this, Miles. Want you. Want whatever messy, chaotic thing we're building together.”
I tightened my arms around him. Felt his heartbeat against my forearm, steady and strong.
“Okay?”
He turned in my arms. His eyes searched mine—dark and vulnerable and open in a way I'd never seen before. Like he was letting me see all the way down to the parts of himself he usually kept hidden.
The fear. The hope. The desperate want for this to be real.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Good. Because I want that too. Even if it means dealing with your obsessive spice organization and your need to wake up before the sun like some kind of masochist.”
“Even if it means dealing with your disaster of a kitchen and your sister's glitter obsession?”
“Even then.”
We kissed again. Slower this time. Deeper. His hands came up to fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I let myself sink into it. Into him. Into the promise of mornings like this—quiet and easy and ours.
I could taste the cinnamon on his tongue. Could feel the way his body fit against mine, all the angles and planes of him that I was starting to memorize. The way he made this sound in the back of his throat when I bit his lower lip. The way his fingers dug into my sides when I pulled back.
The espresso machine beeped, pulling us apart. Miles blinked, dazed, then turned back to finish making our coffees with the kind of care he brought to everything he actually gave a damn about.
When he handed me mine—perfectly pulled, with a simple heart in the foam that was slightly lopsided but charming—I felt something in my chest tighten.
“You're getting better at latte art.”
“I've been practicing.”
He took a sip of his own coffee, watching me over the rim. His eyes were darker now. Heated.
“Watched some tutorials. Asked Jenna for tips because apparently she's secretly good at it and doesn't bother most of the time.”
He paused. Set down his cup. His fingers drummed against the ceramic once, twice, then stilled.
“Figured if we're going to be doing this, actually being together, I should probably learn some of your fancy techniques. Balance out the chaos with some structure.”
“I like your chaos.”
“And I like your structure.”
He moved closer. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his eyes, visible now in the fluorescent light.
“That's why this works. You ground me when I'm spiraling. I pull you out of your head when you're overthinking. We balance each other.”
“We do.”
“So... what now?”
His voice went quieter. More uncertain. And I watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed.
“Do we tell people? Make it official-official? Or do we keep pretending we're just rivals who occasionally hook up?”
I thought about it.
About walking through town holding his hand.
About introducing him as my boyfriend instead of my competition.
About the looks we'd get—some approving, some curious, some judgmental.
About our dads, who were absolutely going to be insufferable about this, probably already planning double dates and making bets on how long until we moved in together.
About Lila and Jenna, who'd probably throw a party. Complete with glitter. So much glitter.
About standing in front of the whole town and claiming him as mine.
“We tell people,” I said. “No more pretending. I'm done hiding this.”
Miles's smile was bright and unguarded. The kind he usually kept locked away behind sarcasm and defensive humor. The kind that made my chest ache.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You're mine. I want everyone to know it.”
“Possessive.”
His grin widened. His whole face transformed when he smiled like that—open and young and beautiful.
“I like it.”
“Good. Because I'm not letting you go.”
“Don't plan on going anywhere.”
We stood there in my quiet café. Drinking coffee. Stealing kisses between sips.
This thing between us was still new. Still fragile in some ways. There were things we hadn't talked about yet—logistics and futures and what happened when the publicity died down and we were just two guys running competing cafés in a small town.
But it was real. Solid.
Worth fighting for.
“I should probably get to my own café soon,” Miles said eventually.
He didn't move. Just stood there, close enough that our shoulders touched, warm and solid against mine.
“Lila's going to wonder where I disappeared to. Again.”
“Tell her you were helping me prep.”
“I didn't help you prep. I showed up, ate your food, made you coffee, and distracted you with my sparkling personality.”
“Exactly. Very helpful.”
He laughed. The sound was warm and genuine and unguarded. Then he pressed one more kiss to my lips before stepping back.
“All right. I'm going. But I'm coming back later. After both our shifts.”
He grabbed his hoodie zipper, tugging it up against the morning chill.
“We're doing dinner. Somewhere nice. An actual date.”
“I'd like that.”
“Good. Because you're paying. I'm broke from buying all those decorations Lila insisted we needed for the booth.”
“Fair enough.”
I walked him to the door. Reluctant to let him go even though I knew I'd see him in a few hours. The separation felt wrong, like tearing off a piece of myself.
He paused on the threshold. Looked back at me. The streetlight behind him cast his face in shadow, but I could see his eyes. Could see everything he wasn't saying.
“Derek?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks. For this. For us.”
His voice went rough. Honest. Raw in a way that made my throat tight.
“For making me believe this could actually work.”
My chest tightened. Constricted until breathing hurt.
“Thank you for giving me a chance. For seeing past the rivalry bullshit and actually getting to know me.”
“You're not that hard to know. Underneath all the smugness, you're just a guy who makes good coffee and has terrible taste in morning wake-up times.”
“And you're just a guy who pretends to be cynical but secretly cares about everything way too much.”
“Fuck off.”
“Love you too.”
He grinned. Shook his head. And headed out into the predawn darkness.
I watched him walk to his car—still barefoot, the idiot. Watched him drive away, his taillights disappearing around the corner. Felt the absence of him like a physical thing. Like something essential had been carved out of my chest.
But it was okay.
Because this wasn't goodbye. This was just the start of the day, and I'd see him later. We had dinner plans and a future and this messy, perfect thing we were building together.
I turned back to my café. Ready to face the day. Ready for whatever came next.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt genuinely excited about what that might be.
Not just the success of the business. Not just the validation of winning the contest or the publicity or the packed café.
But this. Us. Whatever we were becoming.
I moved back behind the counter. Started another espresso for myself—a real one this time, now that Miles wasn't here to distract me. The routine was familiar, comforting, but different now. Better.
Because I wasn't alone anymore.
The machine hissed. Steam rose. And through the window, I could see the first hints of dawn starting to lighten the sky—purple bleeding into deep blue, the stars fading one by one.
A new day. A new start.
And honestly?
I wouldn't change a single thing.