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“You’re lucky I don’t trade you in for a pour-over setup,” I growled to the machine, reaching for the blind filter basket to run a backflush cycle. “See how you like retirement in some hipster’s reclaimed-barn-wood kitchen.”

The machine gurgled in response, sounding almost smug.

As I worked, I thought about my mate. When don’t you think about him? Trick question.

Still, Phineas hadn’t come in this morning. Not that I’d expected him to. Yet, I’d found myself glancing at the door every time the bell chimed, an idiotic yet hopeful reflex I couldn’t seem to turn off.

Mrs. Alcott had caught me glancing twice and given me a knowing look that said she’d already spun a dozen theories about why the nice barista kept staring at the entrance like a good doggy waiting for its owner.

The thought made me snort.

Flint had taken over the counter at noon, freeing me up to tackle the maintenance backlog. But my heart wasn’t in it. Every task felt like filler, time I was spending until something better came along. The café was quiet, the lunch crowd having filtered out, and the afternoon lull stretched on.

I missed my mate.

The realization landed with more weight than I expected. Not just attraction or curiosity or that initial spark of recognition when my wolf had made its choice. I missed him. The sound of his voice, so different on the phone yesterday—clipped and professional at first then cracking open to reveal something softer underneath.

The way his fingers had sunk into that dough like he was rediscovering a language his body still remembered how to speak. That small, startled laugh I’d earned with a terrible joke about croissants.

Did someone hurt you?

The question replayed in my skull like a song stuck on a loop. Not the words themselves but the way he’d asked them.

I ran the backflush cycle twice then pulled a test shot. Better. Not perfect, but the stream flowed dark and syrupy with decent crema forming on top.

Progress, not perfection. The machine apparently decided to halfway cooperate for now.

The bell above the door chimed, and three familiar figures filed inside.

Merk led the group, his cut smelling faintly of pine and cigarette smoke. He moved with the quiet confidence of someone who’d spent years taking his time, but his eyes missed nothing. They swept the café in a single glance before settling on me as a shit-eating grin surfaced.

Mayhem followed, taller by half a head and built like someone who could stop a bar fight just by standing up. His expression was his usual cocky smile.

Reaper brought up the rear, already scanning the pastry case with undisguised interest. A lazy grin spread across his rugged features as he spotted the remaining croissants I’d made this morning.

“That one.” He pointed at the glass, one finger tapping against the display. “The one with the most butter. I’m on a health kick.”

The guy was full of shit. He ate the worst things for a body. Brother needed to consider himself lucky he could shift and run off the calories.

“Your health kick involves butter?” I wiped my hands on a towel and tossed it aside.

“Goddamn right. Butter’s a healthy fat. It’s science, Drift. You wouldn’t argue with science, would you?” Reaper leaned his forearms on the counter, grin widening. “Besides, I spent all morning helping Blade rip out carpet that was probably installed during the disco era. I earned this.”

“He’s been talking about those fucking croissants for fifteen damn minutes,” Merk griped, sliding onto a stool at the counter. “Fifteen minutes. I was seconds away from shoving a bandana in his mouth.”

“Pfft. Last week he spent an entire ride describing, in detail, the exact sandwich he planned to eat afterward.” Mayhem settled onto the stool beside Merk, somehow making the small wooden seat look undersized. “Including a breakdown of bread-to-meat ratio. With percentages for toppings.”

“It was a sixty-forty split,” Reaper said without an ounce of shame. “Sixty meat, thirty bread, and ten for toppings. Anything else is just a salad with ambition.” He frowned. “I think my math is off.”

I grabbed Reaper’s croissant and set it on a plate, sliding it across the counter. “On the house. Consider it hazard pay for whatever Blade’s making you do.”

Swear to god Reaper was an eating machine. More like grazing. There wasn’t a snack he could say no to. I’d once caught him eating donuts with an uncertain expiration date. I didn’t ask.

“My hero.” Reaper bit into the pastry with a groan that bordered on theatrical. “I’d marry you if you weren’t so fucking hairy.”

“Pretty sure the espresso machine would fight you for custody.”

Merk snorted quietly. “Heard from Blade you’ve been distracted lately.”