Sawyer
The morning sun cracked open across the skyline, warming the pavement and turning every surface gold.
I liked riding early, before the streets got crowded and before the city decided who it was going to be for the day.
The air still held a little bite from the night, clean and sharp in my lungs, and I took the long way to breakfast. Cutting through the industrial strip near the shipyards where everything smelled like salt and old iron.
My visor was up and the wind threaded through my hair, the rainbow streaks flicking against my jaw. I didn’t bother with music. The growl of the engine and the rhythm of the road were enough.
My thoughts unwound behind me like smoke as I rode. No static. No noise. Just asphalt and the hum of machinery under me. If I stayed on the bike long enough, I could almost convince myself I could outrun the rest of my life.
I kicked the stand down, tugged my helmet off, and shook my hair loose as I headed toward the back entrance. I caught a couple of eyes on me on the way in, maybe curious, maybe appreciative, but I didn’t mind because attention slid right off me like rain on wax.
Inside, the place was already half full, soft rock drifting through the speakers while the smell of eggs and syrup hung in the air.
Booths worn smooth with time lined the walls, and the whole place had the comfortable kind of age that came from years of people showing up hungry and leaving happy.
It was my kind of place, the kind where no one blinked if you walked in wearing boots and a tank top.
I hated restaurants where you had to pretend to be anything other than hungry.
“Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” Vic called from our usual booth as they spotted me walking in.
I flipped them off automatically as I slid into the booth, grinning while I shrugged my jacket off. “You’re lucky I didn’t keep riding and ditch you all for pancakes alone by the pier.”
Vic, my best friend, chosen family and human caution sign, sat perched at the end of the booth with a mimosa in their hand and an expression that read equal parts mischief and caffeine deprivation.
Their hair was buzzed on the sides, longer on top, and dyed lavender.
It clashed violently with the neon yellow hoodie they had on.
“I would’ve forgiven you,” Nina said without looking up from her phone as she stirred her drink lazily. “But only if you sent nudes.”
I barked out a laugh and slid into the booth beside Jay, who handed me a mug of black coffee like it was a sacred offering. Jay didn’t talk much. His voice was a rare currency, and when he spent it, you listened. I liked that about him because he didn’t waste anything, not even syllables.
“Did you just get home?” I asked Nina as I lifted an eyebrow.
“From the bar or from someone’s bed?” Nina replied sweetly as she met my gaze.
“Jesus,” I muttered, shaking my head.
“Don’t slut-shame me before waffles,” Nina said as she lifted her glass.
I snorted into my coffee because some things never changed. Tasha dropped into the booth last, curls piled high. She didn’t sit so much as land, her energy immediate as she scooted in beside Vic.
“Did I miss anything?” Tasha asked as she looked around the table.
“Only Vic trying to emotionally manipulate us into caring about their hangover,” Nina said as she pointed in Vic’s direction.
“I’m sensitive,” Vic muttered as they took another sip of their mimosa.
I leaned back and let the banter wash over me. Saturdays were a reset, a ritual you built when you didn’t have blood family close but had people who would bleed for you anyway. If I missed this, I felt it for the rest of the week.
We ordered too much food, the way we always did. I got eggs and bacon with a stack of toast and extra hot sauce, and Tasha stole half my bacon before I even picked up my fork.
“You’re a gremlin,” I told her as I stared at my suddenly smaller plate.
“I’m growing,” Tasha replied without a hint of apology as she bit into the bacon. “Shut up and tell me about Benji’s party.”
I shrugged, aiming for casualness as I poured hot sauce onto my eggs. “It was fine.”
“That’s a lie,” Nina said immediately as she pointed her fork at me.
Jay gave me a long, slow look from across the table before finally speaking. “You met someone,” he said quietly.
“I didn’t say that,” I replied as I focused very intently on my eggs.
“But you did that thing,” Vic added, pointing at my face, “where you don’t deny it, but you also get real focused on your food.”
I picked up my coffee grinning into my mug because it was either that or admit the truth out loud.
“Benji’s sister,” I said after a moment.
Everyone at the table made some version of an ohhh sound.
“She’s…” I started before stopping, because words weren’t exactly my strong suit when it came to people who made my pulse trip over itself.
“She’s hot. Pretty and polished. She’s a real estate agent or something.
” I shrugged like I wasn’t nearly as interested as I actually was.
“I noticed her right away, but I wasn’t going to say anything.
Then she came over and said hi, and I don’t know. It was just easy. Not what I expected.”
“She gave you ‘straight girl on the brink’ vibes,” Tasha said flatly.
“Extremely,” I admitted.
“And yet you’re intrigued,” Nina said as she lifted one brow.
I hesitated slightly before answering. “It’s not like she’s my type. She wore heels to Blake’s bar and drank tequila.”
Nina laughed as she leaned back into the booth. “That is exactly your type.”
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again. “She flushed pink when she talked to me,” I admitted finally. “Real pink.”
“Yep, that’s your exact brand of trouble,” Nina said as she pointed a finger at me.
“I know,” I replied with a sigh. Even my friends knew I was screwed.
“Are you gonna text her?” Vic asked as they tilted their head.
“She doesn’t have my number,” I said.
“Instagram?” Vic asked immediately.
I didn’t answer. The last thing I was going to do was voluntarily tell them we’d already talked on Instagram, but the twitch at the corner of my mouth apparently said enough.
Jay just nodded once, like something had been confirmed.
“God, you’re doomed,” Nina said as she reached for the coffee pot.
“Shut up,” I muttered, though there wasn’t much heat behind it.
Tasha grinned around another stolen bite of bacon. “I give it two weeks before you’re writing poetry about her.”
“I don’t write poetry,” I said flatly.
“You absolutely would for the right woman,” Vic replied.
I shook my head and finally went back to my eggs, which were now mostly cold.
The conversation drifted after that, Nina started complaining about a client, Tasha launched into a rant about her landlord, and Vic tried to convince Jay to come to some show downtown next weekend. We planned our Sunday ride for the next day, down the coast and back.
I was already looking forward to it.
Addison’s face kept flashing back into my head. The way she’d flushed pink when I called her stunning. The way she’d tried to play it cool and failed just enough to make it endearing.
Eventually plates were pushed aside and the check appeared. We paid, argued halfheartedly over who owed what, and shuffled out onto the sidewalk together into the cool morning air.
“Message her,” Vic said as they pulled their jacket tighter.
“I’m not messaging her,” I replied.
“You absolutely are,” Nina said as she started walking toward her bike.
Jay just glanced at me once before heading the opposite direction, that same quiet look on his face. I watched them all scatter down the block before heading toward my bike.
* * *
I peeked into the bookstore, Queer Expectations, when I got off my bike and saw Amanda closing up. She was halfway up a ladder restocking the memoir section, one arm full of books. I gave her a quick wave, and she lifted two fingers in return without even looking down.
The smell of old paper and coffee drifted out onto the sidewalk as I stepped past the door and headed for the stairs.
My second-floor walkup sat above the bookstore, which was owned by the most amazing married couple, Hollis and Soren.
They’d been running the place longer than I’d lived upstairs, and the shop felt like the kind of space that had always existed—crooked wooden shelves, handwritten staff picks tucked between titles, and a bell over the door that chimed every time someone came in.
They hosted a wine-and-cheese book night every Wednesday and had invited me more times than I could count. One night I eventually caved and showed up. Turns out wine, cheese, and queer literary debates are hard to say no to. Now I go semi-regularly.
Over the five years I’d been their tenant, they’d become something closer to chosen family. They kind of took me in, even if I didn’t realize at the time that it was something I needed.
They check in on me, make sure I remember to eat, and often send a plate of whatever Hollis has decided to bake upstairs when they think I’ve been working too much. Which, according to them, is most of the time.
As soon as I stepped inside, I exhaled. I loved my apartment.
The place had windows that whined in the wind, exposed brick along one wall, and light that filtered in soft and warm by late morning.
My boots lived in a pile by the door, and the walls were mostly bare except for a few framed photos: me and Jay at his first gallery show, a Polaroid of Vic flipping off the camera, and one blurry black-and-white shot of me and my sister mid-laugh, caught in motion.
I didn’t keep many pictures. The ones I did mattered.
I kicked my boots off, set my helmet on the entry table, and stood in the quiet for a second because I didn’t need noise here.
The back room that served as my workshop had started as a sunroom once, but I’d turned it into something else entirely.
The concrete floor was scuffed from years of work, and a heavy workbench sat bolted into place where I’d installed it myself.
The scent of metal and oil lingered in the air, familiar and grounding, and my hands itched to make something.
I changed into a tank and loose joggers, tied my hair back, and picked up my tools. There was a piece I’d started earlier in the week sitting on the bench, abstract but vaguely human. Two bent steel arms reaching toward each other without touching. It wasn’t for anyone. Most of them weren’t.
I liked the rhythm of creation, the way pressure and heat could shape something solid. Working with metal kept me grounded because it was honest. It didn’t pretend, didn’t soften the truth. Metal didn’t ask questions.
I was sanding one of the curved edges when my phone buzzed against the bench.
An Instagram notification lit up my screen. I wiped my palms on a rag before leaning over to check it.
@addisonhartrealtor liked your post.
It was a photo I’d taken on my ride earlier as I’d just pulled up to breakfast. My flannel hung open, the thin tank underneath catching the morning light. I hadn’t expected her to see it so quickly, but the small thrill that ran through me was hard to ignore.
Another notification appeared before I could look away. Addison commented on the photo.
@addisonhartrealtor: Okay, but you could’ve warned me this was going to be your Saturday look.
I stared at the screen for a second, the corner of my mouth tugging upward despite myself. My fingers moved before my brain had the chance to talk me out of it.
Me: You want a warning next time, Sunshine?
I could send one in advance next time. Maybe a photo?
A few seconds later the reply came through.
Addison: No need. I’ll just brace myself every time I open Instagram now.
I laughed quietly under my breath because she was quick, really quick. And I liked that.
Me: Careful. Sounds like you’re stalking me again.
Addison: Don’t flatter yourself. I was never stalking. It was a casual scroll… a 36-week deep casual scroll.
I double-tapped the message before I could even pretend I was cool about it. She was charming, and she knew it. I stared at the screen a moment longer before typing the thing I’d been thinking about since last night, since she’d walked up to me like she didn’t mind being seen.
Me: I’ve got a welding job tomorrow. But after that I’m free. Want to hang out in person instead of casually stalking?
I looked over at the sculpture sitting on the table in front of me. The burn marks and curves held tension in the space between the two reaching hands, steel pulled close but not quite touching.
I wasn’t the type to chase a polished girl in heels, not seriously and not in the kind of way that let someone step fully into your life. It never worked out that way for me. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Addison Hart, and for the moment that felt like reason enough to see where this went.
* * *