My Cop Ex Is Bleeding & Brewing

The coffee cart hadn't been there yesterday.

I slowed my pace as I approached the corner of Pine and 2nd, my usual route to the courthouse. The sleek silver cart sat exactly where I expected to find Grind Coffee, the little shop that had been serving my morning addiction for the past six months. A hand-written sign taped to the window read "Temporarily Closed - Family Emergency."

Great. Just perfect.

I checked my watch. 7:42 AM. Court started at nine, and I had three case files to review before then. I needed my caffeine fix, and I needed it in exactly the way that kept me functional: caramel macchiato, no foam, extra hot, light syrup.

The coffee cart looked professional enough. Clean steel surfaces, a proper espresso machine, even a small chalkboard menu. The guy working inside had his back to me, wearing a dark baseball cap pulled low and a black apron. His shoulders looked broad under a gray hoodie.

I approached the window and cleared my throat. "Excuse me."

He didn't turn around immediately, just continued wiping down the counter with mechanical precision. Something about his movements seemed oddly familiar, but I shook off the thought. I was running late and getting paranoid.

"I'll have a caramel macchiato," I said, raising my voice slightly. "No foam, extra hot, light syrup."

"Coming right up."

The voice made my stomach drop.

No. No way. It couldn't be.

I stood frozen as he moved around the cart, still facing away from me. The way he reached for the cups, the slight tilt of his head when he concentrated – God, I knew those gestures like my own heartbeat.

The espresso machine hissed. Steam rose between us. My hands started shaking, so I shoved them deep into my coat pockets.

This was Seattle. Seattle had like, half a million people. The odds of running into him were basically zero. I was being ridiculous.

But then he turned around.

Dark eyes. Sharp jawline. That tiny scar above his left eyebrow from when he'd been seven and crashed his bike.

Zephyr Cross. My ex-boyfriend. The man I hadn't seen or spoken to in eighteen months.

The man I'd walked away from because I was too scared to believe we could last.

He stared at me through the service window, his face carefully blank. A muscle in his jaw twitched – the only sign he was as thrown as I was.

"Here you go," he said, sliding a cup across the narrow counter.

I looked down at it automatically, then back up at him. "Zeph. What the hell are you—"

"That'll be four fifty."

His voice was flat, professional. Like we were strangers. Like he hadn't spent two years learning exactly how I liked my coffee. Like he hadn't been the one to introduce me to caramel macchiatos in the first place.

I picked up the cup with trembling fingers and took a sip.

Bitter. Overwhelmingly, aggressively bitter.

Black coffee. No sugar, no milk, no caramel. Nothing but pure, harsh espresso that made me wince and nearly spit it out.

"What the hell is this?" I snapped, glaring at him.

"Coffee."

"This isn't what I ordered!"

"Sorry." He shrugged, not looking sorry at all. "Must have misheard."

The casual dismissal hit me like a slap. Heat flooded my cheeks – anger, embarrassment, and something rawer that I didn't want to name.

"You're telling me you just happened to forget my order?" My voice rose despite my best efforts to stay calm. "Really, Zeph?"

His eyes flicked toward the small line forming behind me, then back to my face. "Look, lady—"

"Lady?" I laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Oh, that's rich. You're really going to pretend you don't know me?"

"Ma'am, if you're not satisfied with your order—"

"Don't call me ma'am!" The words came out sharper than I intended. Several people in line were staring now, and I could feel my professional composure cracking. "You know exactly who I am, and you know exactly how I like my coffee!"

"Is there a problem here?" asked a woman behind me.

Zeph's jaw tightened. He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "Iz—"

"Don't." I cut him off before he could say my name. Before he could make this real. "Just don't."

I fumbled in my purse for a five-dollar bill and slammed it on the counter.

"Keep the change," I said coldly.

But as I turned to leave, he caught my wrist.

"Iz." His voice was quiet now, urgent. "Listen to me. This place isn't safe. Don't come back here, okay?"

I stared down at his hand on my arm. His skin was warm, calloused from work I didn't recognize. There were small cuts on his knuckles that hadn't been there before.

"What are you talking about?" I whispered.

His eyes darted around the street, scanning the area like he was looking for something. Or someone.

"Just trust me. Please. Find somewhere else to get your coffee."

I yanked my arm free, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Trust you? Are you serious right now?"

"Ma'am?" The woman behind me stepped closer. "Should I call someone?"

"No," I said quickly, stepping back from the cart. "No, I'm fine."

But I wasn't fine. Nothing about this was fine.

Zeph straightened up, his expression closing off again. "Next customer," he called out, already turning away from me.

I stood there for another heartbeat, clutching the terrible coffee and trying to process what had just happened. He looked different. Tired. There were shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there eighteen months ago, and something guarded in his expression that made my chest ache.

This place isn't safe.

What the hell did that mean?

I wanted to demand answers. I wanted to shake him until he explained why he was here, why he'd served me the wrong drink, why he was talking about safety like we were in some kind of danger.

Instead, I turned and walked away, my coffee untouched and my morning routine completely destroyed.

The woman who'd been behind me approached the cart. "I'll have a vanilla latte," she said cheerfully.

"Coming right up," Zeph replied, his voice warm and professional.

I heard the espresso machine start up again as I hurried down the sidewalk, my heels clicking against the wet pavement.

I barely made it through work, distracted and restless. That night, sleep was impossible; I kept replaying Zeph's warning in my mind, hour after hour.

By 6 AM, I gave up on sleep and dragged myself into the shower.

I had two options. I could find a different coffee shop and pretend yesterday never happened. Or I could march back to that cart and demand answers.

Guess which one my stubborn streak picked.