20. Leo
Leo
The silence in the café is a living thing. It's thick and heavy, pressing down on us, broken only by the soft hiss of the snow against the large front window and the occasional mournful groan of the old building settling in the cold.
Mara sits hunched over the table, wrapped in one of Henry's thick wool blankets, but a fine tremor still runs through her, a visible current of the shock and fear that's coiled in her gut. I can see it in the way her hands clutch the mug I gave her, her knuckles white.
Despite my protests, despite me telling them the roads were treacherous and the storm was only getting worse, Margaret and Henry left half an hour ago.
The need to be by their daughter's side was a force of nature stronger than any blizzard.
Now, it's just the two of us, adrift in this warm, quiet space while the people we care about are out there, fighting their way through the dark.
"Another cup?" I ask, my voice softer than I intend. I need to do something to keep the panic at bay.
She shakes her head, her gaze fixed on the swirling snow outside. "Will she be okay?" she whispers. "Tess. Will she be okay?"
"She will be," I reassure. I pour conviction into the words, even though my own gut is twisted in a knot.
"Gray is with her. He's one of the best. And Daniel…
he won't let anything happen to her. They'll get her to the hospital, and she'll be fine.
" I say it like it's an undisputed fact, a law of physics.
I need her to believe it as much as I do.
I turn back to the counter, my movements feeling too loud in the quiet. I grab the bag of dark roast beans, the rich, earthy scent a small comfort. As I scoop them into the grinder, another scent catches my attention, faint but wrong. It's Mara.
Her usual honeysuckle-and-rain scent is still there, but it's…
thin. Worn out. And underneath it, there's a strange, almost metallic tang, like blood or fear.
It's off, and even for my Beta senses, which are less acute than an Alpha's, it's a jarring note of discord.
Something else is bothering her, something more than just concern for Tess.
The roar of the grinder fills the silence, a welcome, temporary distraction. I brew the coffee, the aroma filling the small space, and carry a fresh mug back to the table. I set it down in front of her, but she doesn't seem to notice.
Then, it happens.
A sharp, insistent rap on the glass door. Three quick, loud knocks that shatter the fragile quiet like a thrown rock.
We both freeze, our heads snapping toward the door. My heart leaps into my throat. Who the hell is knocking on the door of a small-town café during a blizzard in the middle of the night? It's not Gray or Daniel; they would have called. It's not Margaret and Henry; they have a key.
Mara's eyes are wide with alarm. I put a hand on her shoulder, a silent gesture to stay put, and walk cautiously toward the door. Through the frosted glass, I can see shapes, bundled figures, their features blurred by the snow and the condensation.
I flip the lock and pull the heavy door open just a crack, the wind immediately howling in, bringing with it a blast of icy air and the scent of pine and cold car exhaust.
"Shit," Mara mutters behind me, and I remember her clothes are still damp from the snow.
Standing on the porch are four people, a family by the looks of them, completely buried under layers of winter gear.
The man, tall and broad, has a thick, snow-crusted beard and wears a bright red parka that's almost blinding in the dim porch light.
Beside him, a woman pulls a scarf away from her face, her cheeks flushed a deep, painful-looking red from the cold.
Two teenage kids stand behind them, a boy and a girl, both looking exhausted and miserable, their shoulders hunched against the wind.
"Hi there," the man says, his voice muffled by his scarf. He has to shout to be heard over the wind. "Sorry to bother you. We were just driving by and saw the lights. We were wondering if… well, if you were open?"
"Open?" I repeat, my mind blank for a second. It's three in the morning.
"We just got here," the woman chimes in, her teeth chattering. "Our GPS took us over the pass, and it was a nightmare. We were hoping to find somewhere to get a hot drink, maybe something to eat. We've been driving for hours."
I stare at them, then glance back at Mara, who looks like a deer caught in headlights. I can see the panic rising in her again, the thought of having to play host, to be responsible for people, on top of everything else.
I turn back to the family, forcing a smile. "Of course. Come on in, get out of the cold."
As they stumble into the café, shaking snow from their coats and stamping their feet on the welcome mat, I turn to Mara. "Hey," I say, keeping my voice low and calm. "You can breathe. Go upstairs, get out of those wet clothes. I've got this."
"But… the pastries," she stammers, her eyes darting toward the empty display case. "There's nothing ready, and I—"
"Mara," I say, gently cutting her off. I place my hands on her shoulders, feeling the fine tremor that still runs through her. "My parents own a restaurant. I've been bussing tables and making coffee since I was tall enough to see over the counter. I've got this. Go on. Get warm."
She looks at me, her eyes searching mine for a moment, and then she nods, a flicker of relief crossing her face. She turns and hurries up the stairs, leaving me to face our unexpected guests.
"All right, folks," I say, clapping my hands together with a cheerfulness I don't entirely feel. "Let's get you something hot. Tea? Coffee? Hot chocolate?"
"Hot chocolate for the kids, please," the mother says, her voice filled with gratitude. "And coffee for us. Black, two sugars."
"You got it." I move behind the counter, my body falling into the familiar, comforting rhythm of the work.
I pull mugs from the shelf, the clinking sound a cheerful noise in the quiet room.
I fill the kids' mugs with hot milk from the espresso machine's steamer, then stir in rich, dark chocolate syrup.
For the adults, I brew a fresh pot of coffee, the aroma quickly filling the air with warmth.
"So," I say as I work, "you said you just got here. What brings you to Sweet Creek Falls in the middle of a storm like this?"
"We were coming to ski," the father says, peeling off his wet gloves and setting them on the heater. "We planned this trip for months. But the storm hit sooner than they predicted, and it slowed us down way more than we thought."
"Ah, a ski trip," I say, sliding the mugs of hot chocolate across the counter to the teenagers, who light up at the sight. "You came to the right place. The snow we're getting right now is prime powder. The slopes are going to be incredible tomorrow, if they can get the lifts running."
"We were hoping so," the father says, wrapping his hands around his coffee mug. "I'm John, by the way. This is my wife, Sarah, and our kids, Ben and Chloe."
"Leo. Nice to meet you all."
"You a skier, Leo?" John asks.
"Born and raised," I say with a grin. "My dad had me on the bunny slopes before I could walk. If you're looking for the best runs, you'll want to head up to the back bowl once it opens. The view from the top is worth the trip alone."
Sarah laughs. "See, John? I told you this was a good idea. We just have to survive the night first."
"You will," I say, my confidence genuine. "In fact, my friend's parents just bought the lodge up the hill. The Lodge at Sweet Creek. They've got plenty of rooms, and the heat works perfectly. You should head over there once you've warmed up. I'm sure they can get you checked in, even at this hour."
John and Sarah exchange a look of profound relief. "A real bed?" Chloe says, her voice small but hopeful. "Not the car?"
"A real bed," I confirm. "With warm blankets and everything."
They finish their drinks, the tension slowly draining from their shoulders, replaced by a weary but contented relaxation. They thank me profusely, and I give them directions to the lodge's front entrance, telling them to let whoever's at the desk know that Leo sent them.
After they leave, the café falls silent once more. I clean up their mugs, the clink of ceramic the only sound. The quiet feels different now, less heavy, more… peaceful. I glance up at the ceiling, toward the room where Mara is.
I hope she's warm. I hope she's feeling a little safer. And I hope, more than anything, that Gray calls soon with good news about Tess.
The bell above the door has become a form of torture.
It jingles, a cheerful, mocking sound, every time another group of snow-dusted skiers barges in, bringing with them a gust of frigid air and a clamor for caffeine and carbs.
The café is a war zone. The air, thick with the scent of burnt coffee, wet wool, and cinnamon, is so heavy it feels like a physical weight on my shoulders.
Every table is full, and a line of impatient customers snakes from the counter, almost to the door.
And it's just Mara and me.
The others are still with Tess. So here we are, trying to keep the ship from sinking.
I can see the exhaustion in Mara before I even smell it.
It's in the way she moves, a little too fast, a little too frantic, like a hummingbird with a broken wing.
Her chestnut hair is escaping its messy bun, tendrils sticking to the sweat on her temples.
The circles under her eyes are so dark they look like bruises.
She's juggling three plates of pancakes and a pot of coffee, her body a tight wire of tension.
I know the feeling. My own eyes feel like they're full of sand, and my back screams from hauling bags of coffee beans and restocking the milk fridge. I've barely slept, my mind cycling through images of Tess's pale face and the long, dark road to the hospital.