Chapter 12 Morning Grind
morning grind
. . .
Derek
Five a.m. was still dark.
Not the soft, predawn kind of dark that held promise of sunrise. Just dark. Cold. The kind of morning that made you question every life choice that led to willingly waking up before the sun.
I still wanted to crawl back into bed every single morning.
Especially now that bed included Miles and his ridiculous body heat and the way he curled around me in his sleep like I was his personal anchor.
The way his leg hooked over mine in the night.
The way his breath evened out against my shoulder, warm and steady and real.
But the café wouldn't open itself.
I unlocked the front door, keys jingling in the quiet street.
The sound felt too loud in the stillness, like I was disturbing something sacred.
The town was still asleep. A few jack-o'-lanterns sat on stoops and windowsills, their candles l since burned out, but no one bothering to remove them yet.
The air smelled like woodsmoke and the last lingering hints of autumn before winter took over completely.
Crisp. Clean. The kind of cold that bit at your lungs.
Inside, the café was dark and cold. Silent except for the hum of the refrigerator in the back. I flipped on the lights, watching them flicker to life one by one, illuminating the space I'd built from nothing.
My space. My pride.
The exposed brick walls I'd spent weeks cleaning and sealing myself. The reclaimed wood tables I'd found at estate sales and refinished in my dad's garage. The vintage espresso machine I'd saved for two years to afford. Every inch of this place had my fingerprints on it. My sweat. My vision.
Except it didn't feel quite as lonely anymore.
Winning the Coffee Throwdown two days ago had changed everything.
The phone had been ringing nonstop—interview requests from local papers, food bloggers wanting to feature us, customers asking about our hours.
Yesterday had been absolute chaos, the café packed from open to close, people wanting to try the “award-winning coffee” and see the place everyone was talking about.
I'd run out of beans by three in the afternoon and had to make an emergency call to my supplier.
Jenna had looked ready to murder someone by closing time.
Lila's café had been the same, according to Miles. Both of us riding the wave of publicity, suddenly local celebrities for beating out corporate coffee and putting on a show the whole town couldn't stop talking about.
Or maybe they just came for the drama. The public kiss. The whole enemies-to-lovers spectacle we'd inadvertently created in front of half the town.
Hard to say.
I moved behind the counter, starting my morning routine.
The rhythm of it settled something in my chest—grinder calibrated, checking the weight on the scale, adjusting the grind size based on yesterday's pulls.
Espresso machine warmed up, the familiar hiss and gurgle as it came to temperature.
Milk restocked in the fridge, syrups checked, cups arranged just so.
The movements were automatic. Comforting in their familiarity. This was my meditation. My therapy. The quiet hour before the chaos where it was just me and the coffee and the promise of a new day.
No customers demanding modifications. No phones ringing. No one asking if we had oat milk or if our beans were ethically sourced or if I could make their latte extra hot but not too hot.
Just silence and steam and the smell of fresh grounds.
I was humming under my breath—some song Miles had been playing on repeat yesterday at his place, something indie and melancholic that I'd pretended to hate but had actually gotten stuck in my head—when the bell above the door jingled.
I looked up.
Expected maybe an early-morning jogger or someone desperate for caffeine before work. Tom, maybe, though even he wasn't usually this early.
Instead, I found Miles standing in the doorway.
My heart kicked hard against my ribs.
He was wearing his hoodie, half-zipped over what looked like pajama pants—the flannel ones with the coffee cups printed on them that I'd made fun of last week.
Hair sticking up in every direction like he'd rolled out of bed and driven straight here.
Which, knowing him, he probably had. His eyes were still heavy with sleep, lashes dark against his cheeks.
There was a crease on his face from his pillow, running from his temple to his jaw.
He looked rumpled and soft and completely out of place in the predawn stillness.
He held two pumpkin muffins wrapped in paper towels.
My chest tightened. Something warm and bright settled behind my ribs, spreading outward until I felt it in my fingers, my toes, everywhere.
He came. He actually came.
“Brought breakfast,” he said, his voice still rough with sleep, gravelly in a way that made my stomach clench. “Figured you'd forget to eat. Again.”
I set down the milk pitcher. Leaned against the counter. Tried to keep my expression neutral even though I could feel the stupid smile tugging at my lips.
“You're stalking me now?”
“Please.”
He walked over, his bare feet silent on the hardwood—because of course he'd forgotten to put on shoes. His toes were probably freezing. The thought made something in my chest ache.
He set the muffins down on the counter between us.
“I'm the hero preventing you from passing out mid-shift because you're running on caffeine and spite.”
He paused. Looked at me. Really looked, his eyes tracking over my face like he was checking for something. Damage, maybe. Or proof that I was real.
“Besides, you snuck out before I woke up. I'm starting to develop a complex.”
“I didn't sneak. I have a business to run.”
“You could've woken me up.”
His voice softened. Went quieter. And I watched his throat work as he swallowed.
“Said goodbye like a normal person instead of disappearing into the predawn darkness like some kind of coffee-obsessed vampire.”
I crossed my arms. Tried not to smile. Failed. “I tried to wake you. You told me to fuck off and went back to snoring.”
“I don't snore.”
“You absolutely snore. It's like sleeping next to a chainsaw that occasionally stops to mumble about pumpkin spice ratios.”
Miles's face flushed—pink creeping up his neck, into his cheeks, spreading to the tips of his ears. His hands flexed at his sides. Opened. Closed.
“I do not mumble about coffee in my sleep.”
“You do. Last night you had a full conversation with Lila about whether edible glitter counts as a garnish.”
I unwrapped one of the muffins. Broke off a piece. Still warm. The steam rose in a thin curl.
“Very passionate. Lots of hand gestures.”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
The words slipped out before I could stop them. Casual and easy, like breathing.
Miles's expression softened. The defensive walls he usually kept up crumbling, just for a moment, just for me. He reached across the counter. Grabbed my hand. His fingers were warm, steady, callused from years of working with coffee and heat and machinery.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do. Even though you're a smug bastard who wakes up at ungodly hours and apparently listens to me sleep-talk without recording it for blackmail purposes.”
“I'm saving the blackmail for when I really need it.”
“Smart.”
I pulled him closer. Leaned across the counter to kiss him. He tasted like sleep and toothpaste and something warm that was just Miles. His hand came up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing over my cheekbone.
When I pulled back, we were both smiling like idiots.
“So.”
Miles grabbed one of the muffins, unwrapping it slowly, his fingers careful with the paper towel.
“How's it feel being a local celebrity? Sign any autographs yet? Get propositioned by housewives who want to buy your coffee beans?”
“Only twice. And they were interested in more than coffee beans.”
His jaw tightened. Just slightly. Just enough that I caught it.
“I'm going to pretend you're joking so I don't have to commit murder before breakfast.”
“Very mature of you.”
I grabbed the other muffin. Took a bite. Still warm. Perfectly spiced. That ideal texture that meant Lila had made them fresh this morning, probably while Miles was still asleep in my bed.
The cinnamon melted on my tongue. The pumpkin was sweet without being cloying. She'd added something else—nutmeg, maybe, or cardamom.
“Tell your sister these are incredible.”
“Tell her yourself. She's planning to drop by later with ideas for a joint Valentine's Day promotion.”
Miles hopped up to sit on the counter, his legs swinging. His bare feet brushed against my thigh as he settled. The contact was casual, easy, but I felt it like a brand.
“Fair warning, there's glitter involved. So much glitter. An irresponsible amount of glitter.”
“Why does everything with Lila involve glitter?”
“She believes it's a valid food group. I've given up arguing.”
He took another bite of muffin. Chewed thoughtfully. And I watched him—the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the way the fluorescent lights caught in his messy hair, turning it almost auburn in places. The way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks when he looked down.
God, I was in deep.
Deeper than I'd ever been with anyone. Deeper than I'd thought possible.
“But seriously,” he said, brushing crumbs off his hands, “the promotion thing might not be terrible. Both our cafés are slammed right now because of the contest buzz. If we capitalize on it, do some cross-promotion, we could turn this into something sustainable instead of a two-week spike in business.”
I studied him. Surprised.
This was Miles in business mode—sharp and focused and actually thinking about the future instead of just surviving day to day.
I'd seen glimpses of it before, in the way he handled his café, in the spreadsheets I'd caught him working on late at night.
But hearing him talk about planning, about building something that lasted, made something in my chest warm.