Lorellai
The coffee grinder sounds wrong today.
I've pulled this lever five thousand times, but this morning the pitch is off. Like the machine's telling me something I'm not ready to hear. Five AM openings mean I'm alone with the fluorescent buzz and burnt bean smell.
The key sticks—two jiggles, shoulder to the door—and I'm in. My phone vibrates against my hip. *St. Mary's Medical Center: Payment past due. Amount owed: $47,322.18 I silence it. Know the number by heart anyway.
Mr. Chen arrives at 5:47. Black coffee, exact change, corner table.
We nod at each other.
Three years of this and I still don't know his first name.
Don't need to.
The morning is slow.
I wipe tables that are already clean, reorganize pastries that won't sell, avoid thinking about my degree gathering dust in a drawer somewhere.
The door chimes at 9:07. I'm elbow-deep in the espresso machine when his voice cuts through. "Take your time." I freeze. It's not what he said—it's how he said it. Low. Quiet. Like time is his to give away.
When I turn around, he's backlit by morning sun. Tall. Broad shoulders. Baseball cap pulled low even though it's already warm outside. Everything about him says money, from the watch on his wrist to the way he stands.
"What can I get you?" He takes his time answering. I feel him looking at me.
"Coffee. Black."
"Size?"
"Large."
I ring him up.
"Three seventy-five." He hands me a twenty.
Our fingers don't touch but I feel the heat anyway—too hot, werewolf hot. Should've guessed. While I make his coffee, he watches.
Not creepy. Just present. Like I'm doing something worth paying attention to.
"You work here every day?" he asks when I hand it over.
"Most days. Why?"
"Curious." He turns to leave, stops at the door.
"You're good at this." I blink. "At making coffee?"
"At making people feel like they're not just another transaction."
He's gone before I can respond. I stand there staring at the sixteen twenty-five he left on the counter, trying to figure out what just happened.
The grinder sounds normal again. He comes back. Same time.
Same cap.
Same presence that makes the whole shop feel smaller.
"Coffee. Black. Large." I don't ask about his change this time.
Just make the drink, hand it over, watch him take the table by the window where the sun hits directly.
He stays twenty minutes. Doesn't check his phone. Just drinks coffee and stares at nothing. When he leaves, he throws away his own cup.
Doesn't make a mess.
The next day, same thing.
And the day after.
By Friday I've started checking the clock at 9:05.
Making sure there's a fresh pot ready.
Telling myself it's just good customer service.
On Friday, he speaks first.
"You go to school?"
I'm wiping down the espresso machine. Stop.
"Used to. Graduated last year."
"What'd you study?"
"Veterinary medicine."
He nods slowly.
"And now you're here."
The observation stings.
"Jobs are competitive."
I keep my voice level.
"Especially for humans."
"Especially for humans," he repeats. I wait for pity. For the awkward subject change. He just takes another sip of coffee.
"You're good with people.
Ever think about switching fields?"
"Every day." Something shifts in his expression.
Almost a smile.
"What about you?"
I ask before I can stop myself.
"What do you do?"
"I work across the street."
Summit Tower.
Of course.
"Doing what?"
"This and that." Deliberately vague.
I should leave it alone.
"Let me guess. Middle management?" Now he does smile.
Small but real.
"Something like that."
He finishes his coffee, stands.
"See you Monday, Lorellai."
Halfway to the door before my brain catches up.
"Wait. How do you know my name?"
He taps the side of his cup where I've written my name in Sharpie.
"Right." But he's already gone, and I'm wondering why it felt like he'd been planning to say it for days.
Monday, he's late. 9:07 passes.
Then 9:10. 9:15.
I tell myself it doesn't matter.
He's just a customer. But when the door opens at 9:23 and he walks in, something in my chest loosens. He looks tired. Really tired.
"Rough morning?"
"You could say that." His voice sounds like gravel.
I make his coffee without asking, but this time I add vanilla.
Just enough to smooth the edge. When he takes the first sip, he stops.
Looks at me. "You changed it."
"You looked like you needed it."
For a long moment he just stares. Then nods once.
"Thank you." He doesn't sit.
Takes his coffee and leaves.
But the next day he's back at 9:07.
"Coffee. Black. Large."
Pause.
"With that thing you did yesterday."
I smile despite myself.
"Vanilla?"
"If that's what it was.
" Making his drink, I'm aware of him watching. Not in a creepy way. Just... attentive. Our fingers brush when I hand over the cup.
Brief. Accidental.
But his skin is too warm and I pull back instinctively.
He notices. "Sorry." "It's fine."
My hand is still tingling. He sits at his usual table. I go back to work. But I can feel him watching me, and for the first time I let myself wonder what he sees. Friday afternoon, I'm closing early for inventory when the door chimes.
"Sorry, we're closed—" I turn. He's standing in the doorway without his cap for the first time. Sharp jaw. Dark hair curling at the edges. Eyes the color of whiskey. He's beautiful in a way that makes my stomach drop.
"You're staring," he says.
"You're in my shop after hours."
"I wanted to talk to you."
My pulse kicks up.
"About?" He steps inside. Lets the door close behind him.
"I have a proposition."
I lean the broom against the wall.
Cross my arms.
"I'm listening."
He takes his time. Like he's choosing his words carefully.
"You need money." Not a question. I stiffen.
"That's none of your—"
"Your mother's medical bills. School loans. Rent. You're drowning." My blood goes cold.
"Have you been stalking me?"
"No. I've been paying attention."
"That's the same thing."
"It's not." He steps closer.
Not threatening.
Just present.
"You're good at hiding it. But I notice things."
"Congratulations. You've discovered I'm poor. Want a medal?" He doesn't rise to the bait.
Just keeps looking at me with those unsettling eyes.
"I'm offering you a way out." I laugh.
Sounds bitter.
"Let me guess. You want something in return."
"Yes." At least he's honest.
"What?"
He hesitates.
Just for a second.
"A year of your time."
I wait for the punchline.
"Doing what, exactly?"
"Being seen with me.
Public appearances. Events. You'd live in my home. Play a role." Oh. "You want an escort." "I want a contract mate."
The words hit like cold water.
Mate.
Werewolf mate. I take a step back.
"You're insane."
"I'm serious."
"I'm human."
"I know."
"Then you know this doesn't make sense. Werewolves don't mate with humans. Not publicly. Not—"
"They do now. It's progressive. Good optics."
Optics. Right.
"So I'd be what? Your political statement?"
"You'd be compensated. Generously."
"How generously?"
"One hundred thousand dollars a month."