Scott
Iwait for him at the coffee shop around the corner, sitting at a small table by the window with my hands wrapped around a paper cup I haven’t taken a single sip from.
The place is quiet, tucked between a florist and a little antique store with lace curtains in the window. It smells like espresso. The kind of place that should make me feel calm.
But today, it doesn’t. My pulse hasn’t settled since I left the grocery store.
I keep replaying the last twenty minutes in my head, trying to decide if I’ve misread everything. Maybe Harrison is just friendly. Maybe he talks to everyone that way. Maybe that slow smile and easy confidence have nothing to do with me at all.
Maybe I’m making something out of nothing because I’m lonely and new in town and desperate to feel like this move means something.
Staring out the window, I watch people pass on the sidewalk. A woman walks by carrying a bouquet wrapped in brown paper. An older man pauses to peer into the antique shop. Somewhere down the block, a bell chimes as a door opens.
Everything about Hampstead feels slower than the life I left behind.
Gentler.
Like the whole town has decided not to rush into anything.
I wish my heart would get the memo.
The bell over the coffee shop door rings, and I look up before I can stop myself. Harrison steps inside, and in one ridiculous second, I forget how to breathe.
He’s taken off the store apron, but he still wears the same dark jeans and fitted gray T-shirt, his hair slightly mussed like he’s run his fingers through it on the walk over. His gaze sweeps the room, and when he finds me, his smile comes slow and certain.
My stomach dips.
He orders at the counter first, chatting easily with the barista while I sit there trying not to stare.
Trying and failing.
When he finally walks over with his coffee, he nods toward the empty chair across from me.
“This seat taken?”
I shake my head. “Not unless you count my nerves.”
His brows lift, amusement warming his eyes as he sits. “That bad, huh?”
I let out a quiet laugh, embarrassed but unable to deny it. “I’m not usually this awkward.”
“No?”
“No.”
He leans back, studying me over the rim of his cup. “So, I bring it out in you?”
“Apparently.”
His smile widens, and something about it loosens the knot in my chest.
“Good to know,” he says.
I huff out another laugh and finally take a sip of my coffee, mostly to give myself something to do. It’s cooled enough not to burn my tongue, but I barely taste it.
For a moment, neither of us says anything. Not because the silence is uncomfortable. More because it feels full. Like there’s something sitting between us, waiting to be named.
Harrison breaks first.
“So, Scott,” he says, making my name sound softer than it has any right to. “What made you choose Hampstead?”
I shrug, glancing out the window. “I wanted quiet.”
“Running from something?”
The question should feel too personal, but his tone is gentle. Curious, not intrusive.
I look back at him. “Maybe expectations.”
His expression shifts, not dramatically, but enough for me to notice.
“Those can be heavy,” he says.
“They can.”
He nods, like he understands exactly what I mean without making me explain more than I want to. That should make me nervous. Instead, it makes me want to keep talking.
“I bought a cottage by Savannah Lake,” I say. “It needs work, but it’s mine. I figured maybe if I had a place that belongs to me, I could figure out what kind of life I actually want.”
His gaze holds mine. “And have you?”
“Not yet.”
“No rush.”
I smile faintly. “That sounds like something people say when they already have themselves figured out.”
Harrison laughs under his breath, looking down at his coffee. “Trust me, I do not have myself figured out.”
“You seem like you do.”
“Yeah?” He leans forward a little, forearms resting on the table. “What do I seem like?”
The question catches me off guard. Warmth climbs my neck again, but this time, I don’t look away.
“You seem comfortable,” I say carefully. “Like you don’t spend every second wondering whether you’re allowed to take up space.”
The amusement softens on his face. For a second, I wonder if I said too much.
Then he says, “It took me a long time to get there.”
The honesty in his voice lands somewhere deep in my chest. I nod, not trusting myself to speak right away.
Outside, the sky starts to dim, the late afternoon sun slipping lower behind the buildings. Golden light spills through the window and catches in Harrison’s hair, turning the brown strands warmer, softer.
And he’s looking right back at me. “So what do you do?” he asks.
“I teach history,” I say. “Online, which makes the whole moving-to-the-middle-of-nowhere thing a little easier.”
“You’re one of those people who know random facts nobody asked for?”
“Absolutely.”
“Give me one.”
“Right now?”
“Right now.”
I sit back, considering. “President Lincoln is a licensed bartender.”
Harrison’s eyebrows shoot up. “No kidding?”
“Before he was president, he co-owned a tavern in Illinois.”
He stares at me for a second, then grins. “That is exactly the kind of fact I didn’t ask for but am very glad to have.”
“I have plenty more.”
“I’m hoping to hear many more.”
The way he says it makes my breath catch.
The conversation keeps going after that, drifting from Lincoln to favorite movies, from movies to food, from food to the best pizza in town, which Harrison insists is at a place called Pompei’s.
“You’re very passionate about pizza,” I say.
“I’m passionate about important things.”
“And pizza is important?”
“Pizza is foundational.”
I laugh. “Foundational?”
“To society. To happiness. To late-night bad decisions.”
“That’s a lot of responsibility for cheese and bread.”
“You say that now because you haven’t had Pompei’s.”
“And when I do?”
“When you do, you’ll understand.”
There’s something easy about him. Not simple. Easy in the way deep water can look calm from the surface.
The more he talks, the more I want to know. What makes him laugh when no one’s around? What makes him angry? What he’s like first thing in the morning?
That thought startles me enough that I look down at my coffee.
Harrison notices. Of course he does.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous habit.”
“I’ve heard that.”
His fingers shift around his cup, and my eyes drop to them before I can stop myself. Strong hands. Capable hands. A small scar crossing one knuckle, pale against his skin.
I wonder how he got it.
I wonder what his hand would feel like against mine again, without the excuse of an introduction. The thought sends heat curling through me, low and quiet.
I take another sip of coffee.
“So,” Harrison says, his voice a little softer now, “do you know anyone here yet?”
“Not really.”
“That sounds lonely.”
“It is,” I admit.
The words slip out before I can soften them.
Harrison doesn’t rush to fill the silence. He just looks at me, steady and kind in a way that makes my chest ache.
“Well,” he says finally, “you know me now.”
My throat tightens.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I guess I do.”