Chapter 1: Coffee Shop Apology
The bell above the door jingled like a broken wind chime, and Jordan froze halfway through the threshold of Steam & Stitch, suddenly aware that he had no script for this moment. The coffee shop smelled like burnt sugar and old paper, that familiar scent that used to mean late-night study sessions and Mac's terrible jokes echoing off the exposed brick walls. Now it just smelled like regret.
Mary was behind the counter, her back to him, wiping down the espresso machine with the kind of aggressive focus that suggested she'd been at it for a while. Her blonde hair was pulled into a messy knot at the nape of her neck, and even from here he could see the tension in her shoulders. The place was empty except for a guy in the corner nursing what looked like a cold latte, and the neon sign buzzing above the pastry case flickered like it was having a seizure.
"You're closed," she said without turning around. "We're closed. The sign says closed. I flipped it myself."
"I know." Jordan's voice came out weird, too high, like he'd swallowed helium. He cleared his throat. "I saw. I just—"
She turned then, and those blue eyes hit him like a physical thing. Bright and sharp and tired in a way that made his chest ache. There were dark circles under them that she hadn't bothered to hide, and a small smudge of something—flour, maybe, or paint—on her cheekbone.
"Jordan." Not a question. Not a greeting. Just his name, flat and neutral, like she was reading it off a form.
"Yeah." He shoved his hands in his pockets, then pulled them out again. The backroom door was propped open behind her, and he could see the chaotic nest of mismatched chairs and that one sticky table where the condensation never dried. The fluorescent light inside buzzed like a dying bee, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow. "I, uh. I wanted to check on you."
"Check on me." She said it like she was tasting something sour.
"I know Mac hasn't—I mean, he's been—" Jordan stopped. Started again. "He's been a dick. And I'm not here to make excuses for him. I just—I felt like someone should apologize. Even if it's not my apology to make."
Mary stared at him for a long moment. Then she picked up a broom from behind the counter and held it out. "Here."
"What?"
"You heard me. Take the broom. Work off those nerves." She gestured vaguely at the backroom. "Floor's a mess. Someone spilled a whole container of cocoa powder back there and I've been too busy to deal with it."
Jordan blinked at her. "You want me to—"
"Sweep. Yes. That's what the broom is for." She pushed it toward him. "You came here to check on me, right? Here's your chance. Earn it."
He took the broom. It felt ridiculous, standing there in his jacket with a broom in his hands while she watched him with those exhausted, unreadable eyes.
"Okay," he said. "Okay."
The backroom was worse than he remembered. The cocoa powder had indeed exploded across the floor, a fine brown dust that coated everything in a sticky film. Jordan started sweeping, the bristles scraping against the concrete, and the sound was almost meditative. Almost.
Mary followed him in, wiping down the counter of the back sink. The silence between them was thick enough to choke on.
"So," Jordan said after a minute. "How are you?"
She snorted. Actually snorted. "That's the best you've got?"
"I'm rusty at this."
"At what? Talking to women whose lives your best friend just blew up?"
"At talking to you." He kept his eyes on the floor, sweeping the cocoa powder into a pile. "We never really talked. Not alone. Not like this."
Mary was quiet for a moment. The urn for the floral arrangement sat half-full on the counter—day-old inventory that probably smelled like rot mixed with sugar, now that he thought about it. He wrinkled his nose.
"Him and me," she said finally. "Just like that. No warning. No reason."
"I know."
"No, I don't think you do." She wrung out the rag with more force than necessary. "Three years. And then a text message. A text message, Jordan. 'I need some space.' That was it. That was the whole thing."
Jordan stopped sweeping. The broom bristles settled against the floor, and the silence stretched out, thin and tight. He didn't know what to say. He'd been there when Mac sent that text, sitting on the couch in their apartment, watching his best friend type and delete and retype for twenty minutes before finally hitting send. He hadn't said anything then, either.
"There's more," he said quietly. "There's always more."
"Then he should have told me."
"Yeah." Jordan turned back to the floor, pushing the pile of cocoa powder into a corner. "He should have."
They worked in silence after that. Mary washed cups at the sink, and he swept, and every so often, the neon sign in the front of the shop would buzz loud enough to hear through the doorway. The ghost of Mac hung between them like a fog, dense and impossible to ignore.
Jordan found himself watching her when she wasn't looking. The way she moved, careful and deliberate, like she was holding herself together with sheer willpower. The way her jaw tightened when she thought he couldn't see. She was doing something strange with the floral arrangement. He didn't ask. His mind wandered anyway — her apartment, her late nights with the arrangement. None of his business.
"You know what the worst part is?" Mary said suddenly, and her voice was rough. She paused, holding the floral arrangement with both hands. "The worst part is that I keep waiting for him to come back. I keep thinking, any day now, he'll show up and tell me he made a mistake. And I hate that. I hate that I'm still waiting."
Jordan set the broom against the wall. "You're not waiting. You're surviving."
"Poetic."
"I mean it." He hesitated, then moved closer to her, close enough to see the way her hands trembled around the arrangement. "You're here. You're working. You're holding on. That's not waiting. That's fighting."
"I don't feel like I'm fighting." Her voice cracked. "I feel like I'm drowning."
Jordan took the arrangement from her hands. His knuckles brushed hers. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and the air went thick and hot and wrong in a way he couldn't begin to unpack.
"You're not drowning," he said. "You're just—"
She stood on her toes and kissed him. Her mouth was dry from the coffee, soft and warm and desperate, and it caught him completely off guard. His hands hovered for half a second before landing on her hips, fingers digging into the fabric of her apron. She tasted like anxiety and caramel syrup, and he didn't want to stop.
But he did.
He pulled back with a gasp, catching her wrists as she reached for him again. Her hair had come loose, spilling down her back in tangles of gold, and her breath was coming fast.
"We shouldn't," he said. His voice shook. "You're—you're Mac's—"
She let out a laugh that sounded like something breaking. "Mac's what? Mac's ex? Mac's leftover? Great. Good to know." She spun away from him, snatching up the mug she'd been washing just to have something to do with her hands.
"That's not what I meant." He caught her elbow. She didn't shake him off. "I meant you're going through something. I meant you're hurting. I meant I came here to help you, not to—"
"Not to what? Not to feel something? Not to want something?"
"Not to take advantage of you!" The words came out louder than he intended, bouncing off the concrete walls. He let her go, stepping back. "Jesus, Mary, I'm not him."
He hadn't meant it as a dig. But she flinched anyway, her jaw clenching hard enough that he could see it.
"No," she said quietly, turning to face him. "You're not him. He wouldn't have stopped."
That hung in the air between them. Jordan didn't know what to say to that. He didn't know how to be the person she needed him to be when he didn't even know who that was.
She turned back to the sink, her shoulders straight and rigid.
"You should go," she continued, dropping the mug back into the water with a splash. "I've got closing procedures. You've done your good deed for the day."
"Mary—"
"Go home, Jordan."
He stood there for another long moment. She wouldn't look at him. He pulled off his jacket like it was costume, folded it over his arm, and walked out into the empty coffee shop. The neon sign buzzed. The cold latte guy was gone. The door jingled again, and then he was outside, in the night air, and he didn't feel any better than when he'd walked in.
He realized he still hadn't asked her how she was doing. Not really. He'd been too busy tripping over his own guilt to actually see her. And now—
A sound came from behind the shop. Something crashing. Then a voice, low and frustrated, followed by another voice. Mary, and someone else. Someone who wasn't supposed to be there.
Jordan froze. His heart kicked hard in his chest.
He took a step toward the alley.
He took a step toward the alley. Then another. The gravel crunched under his sneakers, and the sound was loud enough to make him wince. The alley was narrow, squeezed between the coffee shop and the empty storefront next door, and the only light came from a single bulb above the back door, buzzing just like the neon sign out front.
"Get the fuck off me."
Mary's voice. Sharp and cold and absolutely steady despite the words. Jordan's blood went hot.
"Come on, Mary. You know you want this. You've been walking around here all night with that look."
Another voice. Male. Low and wheedling. Jordan rounded the corner and saw them in the sickly yellow glow—Mary backed against the dumpster, her hands up, and a guy in a Steam & Stitch apron pressed close, one hand on her hip. The name tag caught the light. Dale. The creepy barista Mary had mentioned once, the one who always lingered too long during close.
"Hey." Jordan's voice came out flat. Dead. "Back off."
Dale turned. His face was flushed, eyes glassy. Drunk or high, Jordan couldn't tell. Didn't care. "This is none of your business, man. We're just talking."
"She told you to get off her." Jordan stepped closer, his hands loose at his sides. "I heard her. So back off."
"Jordan." Mary's voice flickered with something—relief, maybe, or warning. "It's fine. I've got this."
"The fuck you do." Dale laughed, a wet, ugly sound. "You've been leading me on for weeks. All those looks. Those little touches when you hand me the milk. You think I don't notice?"
Jordan moved before he could think. His hand closed around Dale's shoulder, and he yanked, hard, spinning the guy around. Dale swung wild, a clumsy fist that Jordan ducked without thinking, and then Jordan's knuckles cracked against Dale's jaw, sending him stumbling into the brick wall.
"That's enough." Jordan's chest heaved. His voice was still flat. "Touch her again and I'll break your fucking hand."
Dale touched his jaw, staring at Jordan with a mix of surprise and fury. For a second, Jordan thought he'd swing again. Then Dale's eyes darted to Mary, to the way she'd moved to stand at Jordan's shoulder, her body angled like she was ready to fight too, and something in his face shifted. Died.
"This isn't over," Dale muttered, but he was already moving, shoving past them both and disappearing around the corner.
The alley went quiet. Just the buzz of the light and the distant hum of traffic.
Mary let out a breath. It shook on the way out. "You didn't have to do that."
"You were handling it?" Jordan turned to face her. His hand hurt. He didn't care. "He had you against a dumpster."
"I was handling it." She lifted her chin. But her hands were trembling, and she couldn't hide it. "I had a screwdriver in my back pocket. I was about to use it."
"Jesus, Mary."
"Stop." She held up a hand. "Stop looking at me like I'm some fragile thing. I'm not. I've been dealing with men like Dale since I was fourteen. I know how to—" Her voice cracked. She stopped. Started again. "I know how."
Jordan didn't say anything. He just stood there, breathing, watching her hold herself together by a thread. Her hair was everywhere. There was still flour on her cheek. Her eyes were glassy but dry, and he knew she wouldn't cry. Not here. Not in front of him.
"I'm fine," she said. "You can go."
"Mary."
"Go home, Jordan."
He moved instead. Not toward her—toward the back door of the shop, which was still propped open. He stepped inside, crossing through the backroom, where the urn for the floral arrangement still sat half-full on the counter, the cocoa powder still piled in the corner. The fluorescent light buzzed. His footsteps echoed.
She followed him. "What are you doing?"
He pulled the door shut behind her, locked it. Then he turned and looked at her. Really looked. The exhaustion. The stubbornness. The way she was holding the screwdriver now, just to have something in her hands.
"I'm not going home," he said. "I'm staying. If you want me to. If you don't, I'll sit in my car in the parking lot until you're done. But I'm not leaving you here."
Mary stared at him. The screwdriver lowered. Her shoulders dropped half an inch.
"Why?" she asked. "Why do you care?"
"I don't know." Honest. Exhausted. "I just do."
She looked at him for a long moment. Then she turned, walked to the sticky table in the corner, and sat down. The chair scraped against the concrete. She put the screwdriver on the table and folded her hands in front of her.
"Fine," she said. "But if you're staying, you're helping me finish inventory. No more talking. No more—whatever this is."
Jordan nodded. He walked to the counter and picked up a clipboard, and they worked in silence for the next hour. Counting cups. Counting lids. Counting bags of espresso beans. The neon sign buzzed. The fluorescent light hummed. The cocoa powder stayed swept in the corner.
And when she finally locked up, when she stood outside in the dark with her keys in her hand and her breath fogging in the cold air, she looked at him and said, "You didn't have to hit him."
"Yeah," Jordan said. "I did."
She shook her head. Something that wasn't quite a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "You're an idiot."
"Yeah."
"I'm not sleeping with you."
"Wasn't asking."
"I know." She unlocked her car, then paused. "But I'm not saying you can't come over. I just—I don't want to be alone tonight."
Jordan's heart kicked. Hard. He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't.
"Okay," he said.
She got in her car. He got in his. He followed her across town, and when she pulled into the parking lot of her apartment complex, he sat in his car for a full minute before getting out.
She was waiting by her door. When he reached her, she didn't say anything. Just unlocked the door and went inside.
Jordan followed. He stepped past the threshold into a cramped living space that smelled like paint and old coffee and something floral. Canvases leaned against every wall—most half-finished, most in shades of blue and grey. There was a mattress on the floor in the corner with a tangled blanket. No couch. No TV. Just a single lamp on a milk crate and the sound of a radiator kicking on.
He heard the floral arrangement before he saw it — a metallic clink, a ragged breath. By the sink. He didn't ask. He just stayed with her.
Mary closed the door behind them. She turned, and her eyes found his in the dim light, and something shifted. The air went heavy. The silence between them turned electric.
"I don't want to think," she said. "I just want to feel something that isn't this."
Jordan didn't move. "You're grieving."
"I'm aware." She stepped closer. "You're the one who stayed."
"I stayed because I was worried about you."
"I know." Another step. Her hand came up and pressed flat against his chest, right over his heart. She could feel it pounding. "I'm not asking you to be him. I'm not asking you to be anything. I'm just asking you to help me stop hurting for an hour."
He should have said no. Every rational part of his brain was screaming it. But she was looking at him with those bright blue eyes, and she was broken, and so was he, and they had been circling each other all night like something inevitable.
"I'm not going to take advantage of you," he said.
"You're not." Her fingers curled into his shirt. "I'm asking. That's not the same thing."
Jordan closed his eyes. Let out a breath. When he opened them again, she was still there, still looking at him, still touching him.
"Okay," he said.
She didn't kiss him. Not right away. She just took his hand, led him to the mattress in the corner, and sat down. Looked up at him. Something in her face was raw and open and terrifying.
He sat down beside her. The blanket was scratchy under his palms. She pulled her shirt over her head, and his breath caught. Pale skin. Blue veins at her wrists. That body detailed in skin, tattoo ink etched up her left hip and side in black lines—birds in flight, their wings spread wide, claws extended. He traced one with his thumb.
"Can I..." He didn't finish.
She nodded.
He leaned in and kissed her. Soft at first. Questioning. Her lips parted, and he went deeper, and her hands came up to grip his shoulders. Then his back. Then lower. She pulled at his shirt, and he broke the kiss long enough to yank it off. Her hands found his chest. His stomach. The waistband of his jeans.
His body was tight and lean, a dark trail of hair running down from his navel. When her fingers brushed it, he exhaled hard. Too hard. Too obvious. Part of him wanted to stop this, to be better than this — but his cock was already straining against his jeans, and it had been so long since anyone touched him like they meant it.
"Mary." His voice came out ragged. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure." She pushed him onto his back. The blanket bunched under them. She climbed over him, settled on his hips, and the slow grind of her denim against his erection made him groan through his teeth.
She leaned down and kissed him again—faster this time, messier—her hair falling around them like a curtain. He grabbed her hips and pulled her flush against him.
"Fuck," he muttered against her mouth. His hands slid down her back and found the clasp of her bra. He fumbled with it for a second before it came undone. She sat up and let the straps slide down her arms. Her breasts were small, handfuls, the nipples pink and already hard.
"Touch me," she said.
He did. Cupped both, thumbs brushing over the nipples. Her head fell back, a soft moan escaping her lips.
He sat up, wrapped an arm around her waist, and took one nipple in his mouth. She arched into him, a broken little sound catching in her throat. He sucked hard, then gentle, then hard again while she moved against him.
Jordan flipped her over. It was easier than it should have been, the two of them on that lumpy mattress. He pulled her jeans down and she lifted her hips to help, kicked them off, and then she was naked beneath him and looking up at him like he was something worth clinging to.
He wanted to ask again if this was okay. But her hands were already fumbling with his belt, pulling it open, unzipping him with quick, practiced efficiency. His jeans hit the floor. His boxers followed. And then he was hard and heavy in her hand, and she was stroking him with a steady grip, and everything else in the world went quiet.
"Mary." His breath was hot against her neck as he nudged her thighs apart with his knee. "Last chance."
"Jordan." She met his eyes. "Fuck me. Please."
He reached for his jeans, grabbed his wallet, and pulled out a condom. She watched him roll it on, her chest rising and falling fast, and then he was over her, and she was guiding him in, and he pushed inside.
"Shit," he hissed. She was wet and tight and perfect, and her nails dug into his back as he started to move. Slow at first. Measured. Then faster. The angle shifted, and she gasped and clenched around him, and he lost the rhythm entirely.
"Harder," she said. It came out like a challenge. He gripped her hip and slammed into her, skin slapping skin, and she cried out.
"Fuck, Mary—"
"Don't stop."
He didn't. He drove into her faster, her body rolling up to meet his, and the sound of it was obscene in the quiet room. A sharp smack of flesh on flesh. Her breath breaking into moans. His own low, ragged grunts. Sweat slicking between them.
She came first, her whole body contracting around him. She bit down on his shoulder to keep from screaming. It pushed him right to the edge.
"Fuck, I'm—"
"Just do it," she said. "Go."
Two more thrusts, then his hips jerked and he came hard, buried deep in her, a groan ripping out of his chest. He stayed there for a long moment, forehead pressed to hers, both of them heaving for air.
Jordan pulled out, tied off the condom, and dropped it in the trash by the mattress. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know if there was anything to say. He lay back down beside her.
The radiator hissed. The lamp cast long shadows on the walls. Somewhere in the building, a dog barked twice and then went quiet.
"I don't regret it," she said. Her voice was small. Tired. "In case you were wondering."
Jordan stared at the ceiling. "Me neither."
She turned on her side and looked at him. "What are you going to tell Mac?"
"Nothing."
"He's your best friend."
"Was." The word hung there. He didn't take it back.
Mary was quiet for a long moment. Then she reached out and touched his jaw. Gentle. Soft. Her thumb brushed the bruise forming on his knuckles.
"You're going to have a hell of a time explaining that."
"I'll tell him I got in a fight."
"With who?"
"Some asshole."
Mary laughed. It was a broken, exhausted, almost hysterical little thing, and he found himself smiling too, even though nothing about this was funny.
She turned on her back. He turned on his. They lay there in the dark, shoulder to shoulder, and the distance between them felt different now.
"You want to leave?" she asked.
"No."
"Me neither."
The radiator clicked off.
And they stayed there, the two of them, in the quiet blue dark, waiting for the morning to come and complicate everything.