Marcy laughs. “He basically grew up here. Don’t let him fool you, he knows more about this machine than I do.”
I stand there, awkward, while Phoenix helps until the steamer hisses back to life. The customers clap lightly, someone calls him a hero, and he flashes that grin that usually makes me want to roll my eyes. But here, it’s softer. Genuine.
When he finally comes back to me, he hands me a menu. “What do you want?”
I shrug. “Coffee’s fine.”
He arches a brow. “That’s vague as hell.”
I sigh. “Black. No sugar.”
“Figures,” he mutters, but he orders it anyway, along with something absurdly complicated for himself. Caramel, foam, extra cinnamon—stuff I’d never picture him drinking.
We sit by the window, the sunlight hitting his damp hair, making it gleam. For a few minutes, it’s quiet except for the murmur of customers and the clink of mugs. I sip my coffee. Bitter. Hot. Perfect.
“How’s your bean water?” Phoenix quips, licking some foam from the side of his cup.
“Amazing, actually.”
He smiles in a way that I don’t think he realizes. “Mm, good.”
“You’re different here,” I finally say.
Phoenix tilts his head. “Different how?”
“Less…” I pause, searching for the word. “Scary, thrill seeker.”
He smirks. “Give me a few hours.”
I don’t smile. “That’s the thing. You live like every night might be the last. Gambling, drinking, flirting with whoever gives you a look. Why?”
His expression shifts. Not much, but enough. The smirk falters. His hand curls around his mug, fingers drumming once against the ceramic before going still.
“Why do you care?” he asks, voice lower.
“Because I...” I stutter. WhydoI care? He’s just some fling, some addiction I can’t shake. “Maybe I just want to get to know you. And because I’m worried you’re going to burn yourself out if you keep going like this.”
“Worried, huh? What, you have a crush on me or something, rookie?”
“Forget it, Locke.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. Just stares at the steam rising from his drink. When he finally speaks, it’s quieter than I expect.
“You want the real answer?”
“Yes,” I say, before I can stop myself.
He leans back, exhales like he’s debating whether it’s worth it. His eyes flick to mine, sharp, searching. And then he looks away, toward the wall lined with photos of community events, like maybe it’s easier to talk to them than me.
“My parents didn’t want me,” he says flatly. “Went out partying instead of feeding their kid at home. Neglect. That’s what the report said, anyway. I was ten when the state stepped in. Got dumped into the system.”
I blink. The words hit harder than I expected.
“My first foster family couldn’t handle me. Too many… outbursts.” His jaw tightens. “Rage issues, they called it. My second foster family tried to actually do something about it, though. Put me in hockey. Thought maybe if I hit people on the ice, I wouldn’t hit walls at home.”
He says it like a joke, but there’s no humor in it.
“Did it help?” I ask carefully.
