Chapter 3
SAGE
The smell of pancakes drifts through our little kitchen, golden batter sizzling in the skillet while sunlight slants through the lace curtains Mom hung ten years ago.
Morning in our cottage never feels quiet, not with Hope humming to herself as she flips bacon like she’s on a cooking show.
The melody is tuneless but light, and I let it carry me while I sip coffee at the table, my elbows braced against the worn wood that bears the scars of a thousand family meals.
Hope looks radiant this morning, with a glow to her complexion that only appears when she's had a night without seizures.
Her dark-blonde hair is pulled into a messy bun that bounces with every step she takes around our small kitchen, dodging the cabinet door that never quite closes right and the drawer that sticks unless you know the exact angle to pull it.
There's a calm steadiness in her movements that makes the perpetual knot of worry I carry loosen just enough for me to breathe properly.
The cottage itself is small, cramped by most people's standards, but it's ours.
Three bedrooms, one bathroom, and a kitchen that barely fits two people comfortably.
The walls are painted the same pale yellow Mom chose when we first moved here after Dad disappeared.
The living room still has the same floral couch we bought secondhand from Mrs. Anderson when she moved to the assisted living facility, and the coffee table still wobbles unless you remember to slip a folded napkin under the short leg.
Everything here tells a story of making do, stretching dollars until they snap, and building a life from the pieces left behind when someone you relied on walked away. But it's warm, safe, and on most mornings like this, it feels like enough.
“So,” Hope declares, sliding bacon onto a plate with more flourish than the task requires. “Are you going to tell me about him?”
I blink, caught mid-sip of coffee that tastes bitter despite the cream I added. “Him?”
“The tall, gorgeous stranger with the serious eyes who has been hanging around Bean & Bloom.” She smirks, setting the plate down between us with a gentle clink against the worn table.
“People talk, Sage. Hannah mentioned it yesterday, and then Lily was talking about him when she stopped by the library.”
Heat creeps up my neck, spreading across my cheeks like spilled wine on white fabric. “There's nothing to tell,” I declare too quickly, stabbing a fork into my pancakes as if they’re the real problem. “He's just a customer.”
“Customers don't usually come back and sit in the corner brooding like a moody romance hero.
And they definitely don't bring trained German shepherds that practically glue themselves to your side.” Hope's blue eyes narrow in a way that makes her look too much like Mom. It’s the same expression she used to get when she was trying to figure out if I'd finished my homework or just shoved it under my bed. “You like him.”
“I don't like him.” My fork saws through syrup-soaked batter, the sweetness already making my stomach turn. “I don't even know him. He's rude, arrogant, and he has this... stare. Like he's peeling layers off me I didn't give him permission to touch.”
Her brows climb toward her hairline. “That sounds exactly like liking him.”
“Hope.” My voice sharpens, but she doesn't waver. She never does when she's on a roll. Not since we were kids and she figured out that being smaller and younger didn't mean she had to back down from every argument.
“Fine,” she concedes, taking a piece of bacon for herself and crunching it thoughtfully. “But if you start daydreaming about tall, dark, and dangerous while burning croissants, I'm telling Jenny it's not her fault.”
I laugh despite myself, shaking my head at her stubborn grin. “You worry about your classes and let me worry about customers who don't tip.”
Hope leans back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest. The gesture makes her look older than her twenty-three years, more like the woman she's becoming than the little girl I've spent so long trying to protect. “What if he's not just a customer?”
The question strikes deeper than it should, lodging in a place in my chest I’d rather ignore. I busy myself with the syrup, refusing to look at her. “Then he can haunt someone else's café. Not mine.”
But even as I say it, I know it's not true. Something about Luka has burrowed under my skin and taken up residence in the spaces between my thoughts. His voice, low and rough with that subtle accent that wraps around every word like silk. His eyes, hazel and unreadable, seem to see straight through every barrier I’ve put up.
The way he holds himself, like he owns the air around him, and everyone in it should acknowledge his presence.
I hate that I noticed. And most of all, I hate the little thrill that runs through me every time I think about seeing him again.
We eat in companionable silence after that, though my mind refuses to settle.
Hope demolishes her breakfast with an appetite that shows she’s finally feeling well.
I watch her eat, cataloging the color in her cheeks, the steadiness of her hands, and the absence of that glassy look that comes before a seizure.
Good days are precious, and I've learned to notice every detail that signals we might have more than twenty-four hours of peace.
When breakfast ends, I kiss Hope on the cheek, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo and the faint vanilla perfume she's worn since high school. “Text me if you need anything,” I remind her, the same words I've uttered every morning for three years. “And don't push yourself too hard.”
“I won't,” she promises, the same words she’s answered me with every morning for three years.
The ritual comforts us both, even though we know the seizures don't follow rules or respect good intentions.
They come when they want, triggered by stress, fatigue, or sometimes nothing at all.
But the routine gives us the illusion of control, and sometimes that's enough to get us through another day.
I head out into the brisk fall air that feels like a familiar embrace.
The golden aspens lining the streets wave their leaves like coins in the wind, creating a soft rustling symphony that follows me down the sidewalk.
Aspen Ridge is waking up around me, with tourists clustering outside the bakery with lattes and pastries, locals waving to one another from across the street, and shop owners sweeping their front steps and arranging displays in their windows.
The mountains stand sentinel above it all, their peaks dusted with snow. Cozy, safe, ordinary. Or it should be.
The walk to Bean & Bloom takes exactly twelve minutes if I don't stop to chat with anyone, fifteen if Mrs. Rodriguez flags me down to ask about Hope's health or if Bob Martin wants to complain about the new stop sign the city installed near the high school.
This morning, I made it in eleven minutes, my pace quickened by a restless energy I can't shake.
Bean & Bloom hums with a morning rush when I arrive.
Jenny already has her apron on and a neat row of blueberry scones cooling on the counter, their amber tops dusted with coarse sugar.
Today her dark hair is pulled back in a French braid, and her caramel-colored skin glows with the type of health that comes from being young and optimistic about the future.
The air is thick with espresso and cinnamon, the scents I usually find grounding. It should settle the jittery feeling in my stomach and remind me that this place is mine. But not today, because Luka is here.
He sits in the same corner as yesterday, posture rigid, and his navy suit perfectly pressed despite the early hour.
He radiates money and control, from the artfully tousled black hair to the sharp hazel eyes that sweep the café as if he’s cataloguing flaws.
Vega sprawls at his feet like a shadow come to life, the German shepherd's ears twitching as if tuned to my every movement.
I tell myself not to look. Not to notice the way Luka's gaze tracks me the second I step behind the counter. But ignoring him is like trying not to breathe or pretending the mountains don't exist just because you close your eyes. Every nerve in my body insists he is there, watching and waiting.
Jenny nudges me with a grin that's far too knowing for someone who's supposed to be focused on work. “Your admirer's back.”
“He's not my admirer.” My tone is sharp for the casual morning atmosphere we usually maintain. “He's just a man who doesn't know how to drink coffee somewhere else.”
“Mmhmm.” She doesn't look convinced, her dark eyes dancing with restrained laughter. “Is that why you've checked your reflection in the espresso machine three times since you walked in?”
Heat floods my cheeks. Have I really been that obvious?
I force myself to focus on work, to fall into the familiar rhythm that usually quiets my racing thoughts.
Steaming milk until it's silky and smooth, pulling espresso shots with the perfect crema, and sliding mugs across the counter.
My hands remember the choreography even if my thoughts are scattered like leaves in a windstorm.
The morning crowd is typical for a Wednesday in early fall.
Tourists asking about the best hiking trails, retirees from the assisted living facility sharing gossip over decaf coffee, and local business owners grabbing their usual orders before the workday begins.
I serve them all with a smile, making small talk about the weather and weekend plans while my awareness continuously circles back to the man in the corner who hasn't ordered anything but lounges there with the entitlement of a landlord.