5. Jasper
5
JASPER
A s soon as she slips out the door, I feel this weird pull to follow. It’s not like me to get wrapped up in anyone else’s business, especially not some little thief with pink hair and eyes too big for her face. But something about her lingers long after she’s gone.
I take one last sip of my coffee, the bitterness settling on my tongue, and push myself up from the chair. After tossing the empty cup in the trash, I glance out the window, but she’s already disappeared down the street.
I debate leaving and heading back to the house and trying to forget about the way her voice wavered when she told me I looked like I killed people for fun. Smart girl.
But instead of leaving, I find myself walking up to the counter. The barista—a young woman with a pixie cut and a name tag that reads “Sarah”—looks up from cleaning, her eyes widening slightly when she sees me approaching.
“Uh, can I get you something else?” she asks, a little flustered.
I pause, glancing at the door again before meeting her gaze. “That girl who just left. What kind of coffee does she order?”
Sarah blinks, like she wasn’t expecting my question, and glances over her shoulder at the other barista before leaning in a bit, her voice dropping. “Um... she doesn’t really order coffee.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Then what does she order?”
The barista hesitates, her cheeks going a little pink. “Just hot water. Every morning.”
I frown, processing her statement. “Hot water?”
She nods, wiping her hands on her apron. “Yeah. She comes in every day, uses the bathroom, and then orders a cup of hot water. Sometimes she sits by the fireplace for a few hours. I think... well, we think she might be homeless.”
My chest tightens, and I stare at the door again, hoping I can still catch a glimpse of her. Homeless. That would explain the thin layers, the tired eyes, the way she clings to that cup like it’s the only warmth she’s got.
“She never causes trouble,” Sarah adds quickly, like she thinks I’m about to complain. “She’s always really polite and friendly. Sometimes she sits and reads or... you know, just tries to stay warm. We don’t mind her being here.”
I give a short nod, my jaw tightening. “She always comes in the morning?”
“Pretty much. Usually around the same time. I guess it’s her routine.”
I grunt a response, more to myself than her, and rub the back of my neck, feeling this odd twist of guilt I don’t really understand.
The barista glances at me curiously, like she’s trying to figure out why I’m so interested.
Not giving her an answer, I pull out my wallet and hold out a one-hundred-dollar bill. “From now on, when she comes in, make her a latte and give her a bagel unless she would prefer something different. Make sure the other baristas know too. I don’t want her just getting hot fucking water. Got it?”
Sarah nods and takes the money, then looks around nervously, giving me a weak smile. It wasn’t my intention to intimidate the poor girl. It happens without trying.
“Let me know when that’s nearly used up and I’ll leave some more.” I give her a nod of thanks and turn away to leave the shop, then turn back and slide another hundred-dollar bill into the tip cup. “Appreciate you. Have a good day.”
Outside, the wind hits me like a slap to the face, cold and relentless. I scan the street, but there’s no sign of Ariana—just people hurrying past, bundled up against the morning chill.
Homeless .
I hadn’t really thought about it when I saw her before. I was too focused on her quick hands and that sly little smile. But now I can’t shake the image of her huddled up in some alleyway or shivering through the night in a place like this.
My feet take me to my truck without thinking, but I don’t get in straight away. Instead, I lean against the door, running through the facts in my head.
She comes here every morning for a bathroom and a cup of hot water. Probably can’t afford anything else. Definitely doesn’t have anywhere else to go. And the way she looked at me when I confronted her—defiant, but also wary. Like she’s used to being judged.
The realization hits harder than I’d like. I thought she was just some reckless girl playing a game, but it’s not a game to her. It’s survival.
I don’t know why it bothers me so damn much. People constantly go through hard times. I’ve seen worse. Hell, I’ve been through worse.
But there’s something about that fire in her eyes—bright, desperate, but still sparking with life—that makes me feel like I can’t walk away.
With a sigh, I climb into my truck and start the engine. The roar of it drowns out the noise in my head, but not enough to forget the way she looked back at me before she left—as if she wanted to say something but didn’t dare.
I’ve got no business getting involved. None. But somehow, I know I’ll be back here tomorrow morning. To see if she shows up.
To make sure she’s okay.
And probably to lecture her for not telling me she needed help.
* * *
G oddammit.
Where the fuck is she?
It’s been five days since I last saw her. I’ve shown up at the café every single day, waiting. Wanting to find out if she truly is homeless. I have no plan if she tells me she is. It doesn’t matter, though. If I find out she’s living on the streets, I’m going to do something about it. Even if she doesn’t like it. And I have a feeling the pink-haired little thief wouldn’t like it one bit. She’s a strong one. Not by choice, though. That I can tell just by looking at her.
I’ve passed on two jobs to my brothers, and I’m starting to get questions about why I’m leaving to get coffee every day all of a sudden, but I ignore my nosy family and show up here to wait for her.
“Haven’t seen her,” one of the baristas calls out when I walk in.
I frown and nod as I toss a ten-dollar bill onto the counter and wait for my steaming black cup of coffee. And even though I know she’s not going to come, I sit in my usual spot.
Bend isn’t that huge of a town. But considering I have no idea what I’m looking for, I keep coming up empty. And yes, I’ve looked. Both physically and on the internet. Unfortunately, nothing came up with just the name Ariana. It’s unlikely she uses her real name anyway, so that was wishful thinking.
I’ve also driven all around town and looked for her. None of the homeless shelters would give me information for privacy reasons, so the only thing I can do is circle the block around them, hoping to catch a glimpse of pink.
That pastel-pink hair. I’ve never seen a woman with that sort of color, but somehow it fits Ariana. The Little girl has a certain kind of vibe about her. One that is refreshing and free-spirited, but could also be dangerous. She’s too friendly to people. And she always seems like the happiest person in the room, but she’s not. I see it in her eyes. Those blue irises tell the truth.
Part of me wants to shake her, tell her to be more careful because one day, she might steal from the wrong person. The other part just wants to wrap her up and get her out of this mess she’s found herself in.
I sip my coffee, the heat burning my tongue, but I barely taste it. The frustration is gnawing at me, making my shoulders tense. I don’t know why I can’t just let this go. I’ve got enough shit to deal with without worrying about some brat who was going to rob me.
But I can’t forget the way she looked at me that morning—the way she tried to act tough even though I could see right through it. I shouldn’t give a damn about her. I don’t know her. I don’t owe her anything.
Still...
I can’t stop picturing her in some dirty alley, huddled up against the cold, trying to make it through the night. And I hate it. The thought claws at me, worse than any nightmare I’ve had.
I’m not good with people. Never have been. But something about her just gets under my skin. I keep telling myself it’s because I hate seeing someone so small and stubborn trying to survive on her own.
Maybe it’s more than that.
I take another sip of coffee, forcing myself to calm down. There’s no use getting pissed off about it. If I keep showing up here, eventually she’ll come back.
Until then, I’ll just keep waiting.