Chapter 9 Sadie
Sadie
The last few customers drift out the door, leaving only empty mugs and crumpled napkins behind. I flip the sign to CLOSED, lock the door, then run down my closing checklist in my head.
“That went great,” Axel says, stacking chairs against the wall. “Nice turnout.”
“Yeah.” I grab a rag and wipe a tabletop in long, efficient strokes. “Thanks for helping set up tonight.”
“Happy to.” He collects a pile of paper cups and tosses them into the trash. “Want a hand with cleanup?”
I glance at his rolled-up sleeves and easy smile. A tight, unwelcome flutter starts low in my stomach with the odd awareness of him.
“I’ve got it,” I say, moving to the next table. “You should head home. It’s late.”
He stays put, making a show of fixing a chair, muscles flexing beneath his shirt.
He tracks my every move, always one step ahead, like he’s reading my rhythm just to keep me close.
When I reach for the rag, he’s already there, fingers brushing mine, the heat between us sharp enough to sting.
He’s not just helping. He’s claiming the space around me, refusing to leave, letting me feel his presence with every deliberate, silent move.
“Really,” I say, voice sharper. “You don’t need to stay. I do this every night.”
He calmly keeps at it. “I know. Just thought you might like some company.”
My irritation flares. “I have a system.”
He nods toward my checklist pinned by the register. “Very thorough.”
“Then I’m good.” I snatch a chair from his hands. “You can go.”
Axel pauses, dropping his rag. He studies me quietly, eyes tracing over my face, down my throat.
I feel stripped bare, every secret exposed.
The force of his attention lands heavy, making heat pool low in my stomach.
He knows what he does to me, knows I’m barely holding together. “You’re not actually mad.”
I spin around, stacking cups at the counter. “I’m not.”
“But you’re pushing me away,” he says softly.
“I’m closing my café,” I snap, shoving trash into the bin. “I have responsibilities.”
He steps in, and suddenly he’s right there, too close, stealing the air from my lungs.
I can feel the heat radiating off his chest, the edge of his body brushing mine, his scent swallowing me whole.
My skin tingles, my knees threatening to buckle, every instinct screaming at me to back up, to run—or to lean into him and let him hold all the pieces together.
His voice is low, rough. "You’re shaking, Sadie.
" I know he can see how badly I want to disappear into him, how much I need his strength.
I start to deny it, but he interrupts. “I saw your face when your phone buzzed during setup. I’m not asking why. I just recognized fear.”
A crack opens inside me. My rag slips from my shaking hands. Tightness blooms in my chest, and before I can stop it, tears spring to my eyes.
“Hey.” Axel’s voice is gentle as he closes the gap. I back away, but he only reaches out, arms open.
I shake my head and cover my face. “No.”
He waits, just a beat, then pulls me hard against his chest. The world narrows to the heat and strength of his arms, the steady thump of his heart under my cheek.
His hand slides up my back, fingers spreading wide, anchoring me.
I feel the thickness of his torso, the iron tension in his muscles as he holds me steady.
Every nerve in my body goes haywire. I want to crawl inside his heat, let him keep me safe, even when I swear I don’t need anyone.
Shame burns behind my eyes. My body melts against him, traitorous and hungry for more than comfort.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, cradling my head against his shoulder. “I’ve got you.”
I cling to his shirt, tears soaking into the fabric. “You don’t even know me,” I whisper, voice muffled.
“Then let me,” he replies, his hand moving in a slow, soothing circle between my shoulder blades.
After a moment, I pull back, cheeks wet. “Sorry about your shirt.”
He smiles softly. “I’ve got others.”
I wipe my face on my sleeve and swallow. “I don’t usually… break down.”
“No need to explain,” he says, stepping back and picking up the rag.
I manage a small nod. “Thanks.”
He gives me one last look, no pity, just kindness, then returns to straightening tables. “Let’s finish up. Then I’ll head out.”
I nod as Axel and I finish stacking chairs. He drops the rag and stretches. “All set?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I murmur, voice raw. “Thanks for… everything.”
He offers a soft, genuine smile. “Anytime, Sadie.”
After he’s gone, I lock the door, three solid clicks of the deadbolt. My hands tremble, but my mind drifts back to his arms, the steady press of his chest against mine. It’s been years since someone held me without asking for anything in return.
The stairs to my apartment feel endless. At the landing, I fumble with my keys, turn, pause, and turn again. The third click rattles hollowly in the silent hall.
Inside, Rowan stirs on the couch. “Hey,” she mumbles.
“Good turnout,” I say.
She eyes my cheeks. “Crying?”
“Just tired. Poppy?”
“Fast asleep since eight.”
Once she leaves, I triple-lock the door. Nothing feels secure.
In Poppy’s room, her star nightlight dances across her peaceful face. Normally, this steadies me. Tonight, all I see is Axel’s warmth, his hand smoothing my back, the quiet promise of safety. I had pressed my face into his shirt and wept like a child. What must he think of me now?
My phone buzzes. Oregon area code. My stomach free-falls, knees going watery beneath me. I open the message.
Unknown Number: Final notice before court action. Please respond regarding case #OR-7734-C. Failure to appear will result in default judgment.
I sink onto the couch, phone clutched in my hand. I should call my lawyer, Marianne Winters, but I can’t. Not when I’m still tasting his breath on my skin.
I spot the unopened wine Axel brought. I trace the bottle’s curve as I recall his gentle voice. You deserve to breathe. A single glass could ease the knot in my chest.
But the court notice glows, accusing and cold. Fear surges back, sharp and familiar. Letting my guard down is a risk I can’t take.
I leave the wine and crawl into bed fully dressed, too exhausted to change. My phone and its threat lie unanswered on the nightstand.
As sleep tugs at me, one unsettling truth resurfaces: in Axel’s arms, I felt safe. And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.
My alarm screams at four a.m., yanking me from a fitful, sweaty sleep.
For a moment I lie there, every muscle screaming, my chest tight and lungs dragging in shallow, uneven breaths with memories of last night, the tremor of his voice, the ache of his arms around me.
I close my eyes and press my palms hard against my lids, as if I can squeeze the memory out.
God, I’m furious at myself for even wanting him to come back, for longing to see him again. I hate that I hate him for what I want.
No time for this. Not today. Not ever.
I stumble through my morning ritual on autopilot, scalding shower, slip into jeans and a loose tee, hair yanked into a tight ponytail.
I toss Poppy’s bag over my shoulder. Everything measured, everything controlled.
When I lift my daughter from her crib, her little body heavy with sleep, I hug her closer than usual, burying my face in her downy hair.
Her scent is the only thing steady in this spinning world.
“Just us, sweet girl,” I whisper, my cheek pressed to hers. “Always us.”
The drive to Pike’s Perk is silent except for Poppy’s slow, contented breathing in the back.
I watch the road through the windshield and scan the rearview mirror so often my neck aches.
No dark sedans, no strange cars lurking behind me.
Still, part of me half expects to see Axel’s headlights sliding into the parking lot.
I’m sick with hope and fury, for wanting it, for fearing it.
My phone is buried in the cupholder. No messages. No missed calls from Oregon. The reprieve doesn’t loosen the knot in my chest. If anything, it tightens around my ribs.
The café is deserted when we pull in. I move through the security check with hypervigilance, windows latched twice, supply closet sealed, behind the counter inspected. Everything’s untouched. Everything’s perfect except me, fraying at the edges.
In the office I set up Poppy’s travel crib, laying her down as gently as I can.
My hands are steady but my mind drifts in and out of that feverish haze, his rough shirt against my cheek, the press of his palm at the small of my back.
Each flash steals my breath. I wedge a hand against my sternum, willing my heart to slow.
Counting the register, I tap each bill twice, even knowing it’s right. I tweak the espresso machine’s pressure as if it’s going rogue. The routine should calm me; instead, I feel like a hollow shell, living out someone else’s life.
At 5:12 a.m., the back door swings open. Saul pads in, too chipper for this hour.
“Morning,” he says, voice echoing off the walls.
I nod, throat tight. He stares a beat too long.
“You look like hell,” he tells me, setting down his baking trays.
“Thanks,” I mutter, turning back to the portafilter. “Coffee’s on in a minute.”
“Rough night?”
I freeze, wondering if he glimpsed my breakdown with Axel. Could he read it on my stained cheeks?
“Just tired,” I snap, sharper than I mean to be. “Lots to do.”
He’s silent, then lifts his hands in surrender. “Got it,” he says, drifting into the kitchen. Relief and guilt swirl inside me. Get it together, Sadie.
By 5:45, Finn arrives. Every surface gleams, every jar is filled, every crumb swept away. I’m obsessive, meticulous, anything to keep the ache from roaring back.
“Whoa,” Finn breathes, stepping into the café. “Did Santa’s elves show up? This place is pristine.”
I don’t look up as I line up syrup bottles. “Just the usual.”
He studies me. “You okay, boss? You seem… intense.”
“I’m fine.” I move toward the front door to check the locks again. “Really busy.”
“If you say so.” He shrugs. “But hey, killer show last night, right? That Slade guy’s voice, whoa.”
My face goes prickly and tight at the mention of Axel.
I fumble with the coffee grinder, willing him out of my head.
“It was fine,” I say flatly. “Good crowd.”
“Good crowd?” Finn laughs. “It was packed! And you two—”
“I need you to check the milk supply,” I cut in, urgent. “Oat milk, especially.”
He blinks, then heads off. My fingers curl so tight around the dish towel they ache.
Don’t think about him. Don’t hope it’s him stepping through that door.
The morning rush crashes in like clockwork—order, brew, hand off, repeat. It’s mechanical, safe. My head clears when I focus on the next drink, the next name.
At 6:30, Rowan slips in. She watches me for a moment, biting her lip.
“How are you doing?” she asks softly, tying on her apron.
“Fine,” I say, eyes on the counter. “Busy morning.”
“Sadie,” she says, just my name, but it carries everything she’s thinking. “After last night—”
“I said I’m fine.” I clamp down on my voice, then soften it. “Just work.”
She studies me, then nods and takes the register. Relief surges like a wave. No more questions, no more looks. Only the clink of cups and the hiss of steam.
Still, every time the front door swings open, my ribs cinch tight. Every shadow makes me think it’s him.
I’m furious at myself for the hope, for the craving. I’m terrified of what I want, and yet I can’t stop waiting for Axel to walk in.