Chapter Six
Kath
Kath wiped down the espresso machine for the third time in ten minutes, her rag moving in tight, frustrated circles. The afternoon lull at The Grindhouse had given her too much time to think, and her brain wouldn’t stop replaying that one morning at the diner.
Chase.
Gray eyes that actually listened. A quiet voice that didn’t try to fill every silence. The way he’d looked at her as if she was interesting instead of just another girl on a bike.
It was dangerous how much she kept thinking about him.
She tossed the rag into the sink harder than necessary. You are not your mother.
The thought hit like a reflex. Her mom had chased every spark of attention like it was oxygen—truckers, musicians, basically whoever looked at her twice.
She’d leave for weeks at a time, then come back home with new bruises and new excuses before meeting someone new, always convinced this one was different. Always wrong.
Kath had sworn a long time ago that she wouldn’t be that woman. She wouldn’t let a pretty face and a good conversation make her stupid.
But damn if Chase hadn’t gotten under her skin in one conversation.
The bell over the door jingled. Kath looked up automatically, her standard customer-service smile already forming—and froze.
Chase walked in, hands in his pockets, wearing a faded black T-shirt and jeans that looked like they’d seen actual work. His eyes found her immediately, and that small, tentative smile appeared again. The one that made her stomach do stupid things.
“Hey,” he said, stopping at the counter. “Hope it’s okay I stopped by. I didn’t know your last name or where you worked, but Bear mentioned The Grindhouse...”
He trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck like he was suddenly unsure. It was disarmingly cute.
Kath leaned on the counter, trying to play it cool even though her pulse had kicked up. “Stalking me already?”
“More like hoping,” he admitted. “Figured if you told me to get lost, I’d at least get a decent cup of coffee out of it.”
She couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out. “Bold. I like it.” She grabbed a cup. “What do you want?”
“Whatever’s good. Surprise me.” He pulled in what looked like an intentional breath, then said, “I’m Chase Mason. I’d like your number, if that’s not too bold.”
“Not at all,” she laughed softly, cocking a hip out.
“I’m Kath Daniels, and I’d be happy to exchange numbers with you.
” While she pulled a shot and steamed milk, she snuck glances at him.
He wasn’t fidgeting or trying to impress her.
He just stood there, calm and steady, watching her work like it was the most interesting thing in the room.
She slid the latte across the counter. “Here you go. It’s our house special. If you hate it, I’ll make you something else.”
Chase took a sip and nodded appreciatively. “This is really good.”
They fell into easy conversation while she worked the counter between customers.
He told her about rehearsal that morning, how the new songs were starting to feel like something real.
She told him about a nightmare shift yesterday where a customer had thrown coffee at her because his oat milk wasn’t “oaty enough.”
At one point, he leaned on the counter and asked, “You ever take that bike out for fun? Not just commuting?”
Kath hesitated. “Sometimes. Why?”
“I was thinking...if you’re free tomorrow afternoon, maybe we could ride somewhere. I’ve got my truck, and we could take that, but I don’t mind riding behind you. That bike’s your baby. I get it. My truck’s mine. I don’t let just anyone drive it either.”
Kath blinked. She’d expected that most guys would be weird about riding passenger on a woman’s bike. Ego stuff. But Chase just looked at her like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“You’re serious?” she asked.
“Dead serious.” He smiled that quiet smile again. “No pressure. Just riding. Talking. Whatever you want.”
She studied him for a long moment, waiting for the usual red flags that came along with the too-slick line, the hidden expectation. They didn’t come.
For the first time in forever, the fear that usually sat heavy in her chest was quieter.
“Okay,” she said before she could overthink it. “Tomorrow. I get off at three. Meet me here?”
Chase’s whole face lit up. “Yeah. I’ll be here.”
He stayed a little longer, finishing his coffee while the conversation drifted deeper. Between orders, Kath found herself pulling out her phone and opening the notes app before she could stop herself.
“I don’t usually show these to anyone,” she said, cheeks warming as she slid the phone across the counter. “But...this one’s been stuck in my head since the other day.”
Chase read the lines silently, his expression softening.
Boy with quiet eyes and storms inside his name
Sat across cheap coffee like he already knew the game
Didn’t try to own me, didn’t try to play
Just looked at me like maybe I was worth the stay
He looked up, gray eyes warm and wondering. “That’s really good, Kath. Hits right in the chest.”
She shrugged, suddenly self-conscious, but the way he said it made her want to keep talking. “It’s nothing finished. Just...feelings.”
Chase was quiet for a moment, turning the mug in his hands.
“I get that. Sometimes the music feels like the only honest thing I’ve got.
” He hesitated, then added softly, “I’ve been avoiding something big with my dad.
The club. He’s the president of the Rebel Wayfarers.
I told him I wanted to prospect a couple years ago, and he laughed me off, basically said I wasn’t old enough to know what I was asking.
Now...I find myself backing away, because I’m not even sure I want the patch now.
Music feels more like it’s my true thing.
But part of me still worries I’m letting him down. ”
The admission hung between them, raw and unexpected. Kath felt a strange rush of closeness. He wasn’t just some confident musician. He was carrying the weight of his own demons, just like her.
“I know that feeling,” she said quietly. “Trying to figure out who you are when everyone else already has an idea of what you should be.”
Their eyes met across the counter, the busy coffee shop fading for a moment into something quieter, more intimate. Chase’s small smile returned, now turning tender and grateful.
“Yeah,” he said. “Exactly.”
He finally pushed his empty mug across the counter with a regretful “I gotta go.” He gave her one last look over his shoulder at the door.
No swagger. No hungry stare that made her want to keep the counter between them.
Just a warm, steady gaze that lingered like he was memorizing the moment, his expression almost wondering, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was walking away either.
Kath watched him go, arms wrapped tight around her middle, fingers pressing into the fabric of her apron. The bell above the door gave its cheerful little jingle, and then he was gone, the afternoon light catching his shoulders for one last second before the glass swung shut.
She stayed rooted behind the counter, the spot where he’d leaned appearing to hold the faint impression of his presence.
For a moment, the coffee shop felt too quiet, too empty.
She wanted to believe this could be different—that quiet gray eyes and patient smiles didn’t always come with an expiration date.
She wanted to believe she could be different.
Not the girl who watched her mother chase sparks until they burned everything down.
Not someone who mistook attention for safety.
But as she picked up the rag and started wiping down the counter again, using those slow, methodical circles over the same spot, her mother’s face flashed sharp and uninvited behind her eyes.
Laughing too loud at some new man’s joke in the kitchen, throwing clothes into a duffel bag while promising Kath and Maudie that this time it would be forever.
The slam of the screen door. The silence that always followed.
She’d been leaving them since Maudie was twelve and Kath was nine.
Way too young to learn how to get along in the world without an adult around.
Kath closed her eyes, the rag stilling in her hand. Please don’t let me be like her. The prayer rose up raw and desperate, lodged somewhere between her ribs and her throat.
She opened her eyes and looked at the empty spot where Chase had been standing.
The faint ring of condensation from his mug was already drying on the counter.
She blew out a long, shaky breath and rolled her shoulders, trying to loosen the knot that had settled there.
The fear still hummed underneath her skin, familiar and heavy—but for now, at least, it didn’t feel quite as loud as the quiet, stubborn spark of hope flickering beside it.
***
After her shift finally ended and she arrived home to find the house was blessedly quiet, Kath shut herself in her room. She kicked the door closed with her heel, dropped her bag, and immediately started peeling off her jeans. The denim hit the floor with a soft thud.
Pants off. Always.
Something about the cool air on her legs and the freedom of movement helped the words flow.
She’d discovered the quirk years ago during one of Mom’s loud, chaotic nights—sitting cross-legged on her bed in just a T-shirt, scribbling furiously while the world outside her door fell apart. It had stuck.
Kath climbed onto her bed in her tank top and underwear, notebook open on her lap, guitar pick she used as a bookmark tucked between the pages. She tapped the pen against her lip, then started writing, the words coming easier now that the day’s nerves had settled.
Boy with quiet eyes and storms inside his name...
She smiled to herself, legs stretched out, toes wiggling absently as another line took shape. No one else ever had to know about the pants thing. It was hers. A tiny, silly, private ritual that made the scary act of creating feel a little safer.