Chapter 7 Ben
Ben
Felix hums a little quieter this morning.
Maybe it’s the storm hangover. Maybe it’s a cinnamon roll coma from yesterday. Maybe it’s the way we sat shoulder-to-shoulder under a blanket, and I let him lean against me like it didn’t make my whole nervous system buzz.
Whatever the reason, there’s a softness in the air now. Stillness.
And it’s not helping.
He moves around the café like he’s lived here for years. Light on his feet. Hoodie sleeves shoved up his arms. Hair a mess. Still glowing from sleep. Like he never left yesterday’s warmth behind.
He ducks under the counter to grab more cups, and I look down.
Too late.
He’s bent at the waist, stretching, shirt lifting just enough to flash skin. A strip of his back. Smooth. Warm-looking.
My mouth goes dry.
I turn away, pretending I’m suddenly very interested in organizing the syrup bottles by color.
This isn’t good.
This is really not good.
I should say something. Something about boundaries. Or professionalism. Or maybe just: “Hey, maybe stop smelling like cinnamon and sin at 5:30 in the goddamn morning.”
Instead, I make two coffees—his and mine—without asking, and hand him his cup like it’s any other Tuesday.
He takes it, fingers brushing mine again. That same warm pull. That same flicker I’ve been trying to ignore for a week now.
Neither of us pulls back right away.
Then he smiles. Sleepy. Grateful. Dangerous.
I retreat behind the espresso machine like it’s a barricade.
By noon, I’ve caught myself staring at him three separate times. Once while he laughed at something stupid I said (not that I was trying to be funny). Once when he bit into a croissant like it was a full-body experience. And once while he danced—actually danced—with a mop while wiping up a spill.
No rhythm. All hips.
Unacceptable.
By the time we close, I’m rattled. My skin feels too tight. My thoughts keep circling the same loop:
Don’t touch him. Don’t look too long. Don’t wonder what he’d sound like gasping your name.
I go home, throw my keys on the counter, and take the world’s coldest shower.
It doesn’t help.
Later that night, I lie in bed with my arm over my eyes, trying very hard not to think about him.
It doesn’t work.
I picture his mouth. The way he bit into that croissant. The way his hips moved while he hummed under his breath. I imagine pulling him close, pinning him against the counter, tasting the smile off his lips.
I imagine what he’d sound like if I let go.
My body answers before my brain can object.
I shift under the sheets and give in to it… just this once. Just enough to take the edge off. Just enough to stop thinking about his hands. His voice. His ass. His breath against my throat.
Just enough to forget, for a few minutes, that I can’t have him.
I fall asleep sweaty and unsatisfied.
And I’m not proud of it, but tomorrow morning, I’ll make his coffee anyway.