Chapter 5 Ben
Ben
The kid hums in key . That’s the most annoying part.
This morning it’s something low and wordless, drifting just under the sound of the espresso machine warming up. I pretend not to notice. I pretend not to like it.
I fail at both.
We’ve settled into a routine over the past few weeks. It’s not graceful. He still knocks over the tamper every other shift and talks like he’s auditioning for Barista Idol, but it works.
I set the pace. He follows it, then speeds it up, then doubles back to make sure I’m keeping up.
And, okay. I don’t mind it.
That’s not the same as liking it.
Even if I do now keep a second mug ready for him without asking. Even if I’ve started letting him open the blinds while I make our coffee. Even if I listen for his humming when I unlock the front door.
I’m not sentimental. I’m predictable. That’s different.
Felix shows up ten minutes early again. He does that now. Doesn’t knock. Just strolls in. He yawns as he ties on his apron, hair a mess, hoodie sleeves pushed up over lean forearms.
“Morning, boss.”
I don’t correct him anymore. I think that might be the worst sign yet.
“You’re early again,” I say instead, handing him his usual cup. No fancy latte, no syrup. Just coffee with a splash of oat milk and a little cinnamon.
He takes it, brushes his fingers over mine. Doesn’t pull away.
Neither do I.
It’s barely a touch. A flicker. A moment. But my pulse trips over itself anyway.
I clear my throat. Turn back to the espresso machine. “Inventory came in. We’re overstocked on oat milk again.”
“Guess you’ll have to start drinking it too,” he teases, moving behind me to get to the fridge.
He’s close. Too close. I can feel the warmth of him at my back. Smell that strange blend of cinnamon and cold air and something wild I still haven’t pinned down.
I don’t move.
It’s not a moment. It’s not anything. And yet—
My shoulders don’t tighten like they usually do when someone gets in my space.
He hums as he unboxes the muffins, and the moment stretches. Long enough that I glance over.
He’s humming something slow today. Almost tender. The kind of tune that would play in the background of a bittersweet movie scene. And for a second, I see it. The whole picture:
Him. Here. Every morning. This routine. This easy quiet.
A different kind of life than the one I ran from.
One where someone actually stays.
My stomach knots up like a bar rag.
“Careful with the raspberry crumble,” I say gruffly. “Top row’s weak.”
“Noted,” he says with a grin.
His smile is a sunrise I didn’t ask for.
I sip my coffee and look away, out the window, toward the lake just starting to glow in early light.
The shift goes by faster than usual. And when he hums that same tune again as he wipes down the counter, I realize I’m waiting to hear it. Like the day doesn’t feel right until he starts.
Something’s changing. Cracking.
I don’t know what this is. I don’t want to know.
But I don’t stop it, either.