Chapter 2: "Moonbean's Good Boy"
Mia's POV
The alarm screams at 4:55 AM. I drag myself out of bed, every muscle protesting. Last night replays in my head. Ethan bleeding on my doorstep, those storm-gray eyes, the trembling under my touch. I shove the memories down and pull on jeans and a t-shirt.
He probably slept through his alarm. Or worse, he's gone, left in the middle of the night, and I'm stuck explaining to Sophia why I let a stranger stay here in the first place.
I'm already rehearsing my excuses as I head downstairs.
The second I push open the café door, I freeze.
Every light is on. The floor gleams like it's been mopped twice. The air smells like fresh coffee, warm and rich. All the cups are lined up on the counter in perfect rows, no water spots, no smudges.
What the hell? Did I sleepwalk and clean last night?
Then I see it. Center of the bar. A single cup, steam curling up from the surface. I step closer. Caramel macchiato. My favorite. The latte art on top is a perfect heart, so detailed it looks professional.
"You made this?"
The words come out before I can stop them. Ethan emerges from the storage room, hair still damp, wearing the plain apron I left for him. He looks awake. Alert. Like he's been up for hours.
"You said I work for my keep." His voice is calm. "Watched some tutorials last night. Figured I should start learning."
I pick up the cup. It's warm in my hands. Perfect temperature. I take a sip before I can talk myself out of it.
The taste hits my tongue and I have to work to keep my expression neutral. It's better than mine. Better than anything I've made in the last month. Smooth, balanced, the caramel just sweet enough.
"It's... adequate." The word tastes like a lie. "But don't think one decent coffee buys you any special treatment."
A flicker of a smile crosses his face. "Wouldn't dream of it."
I should be annoyed. Irritated that he invaded my space, used my equipment without asking. Instead, something warm unfurls in my chest. I shove it down hard. This is just convenient. Having someone who can actually help. Nothing more.
That's when I notice his hands. Coffee stains on his fingers. Small red marks on his wrists, fresh burns from the steam wand. He spent all night practicing. Hurting himself. Learning.
For me.
The thought makes my chest tighten. I turn away fast, gripping the counter edge. "Store opens at 6. I'll show you the basics. Once."
The espresso machine hisses as I fire it up. Morning light slants through the windows. Ethan stands next to me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body.
"Wrong angle." I'm watching him try to steam milk and he's holding the pitcher too high. "The steam wand needs to be lower."
Impatience gets the better of me. I step forward and reach around him, my hand covering his on the metal pitcher, adjusting the angle. My chest brushes against his back.
He goes completely still.
His breathing turns harsh. I feel his whole body start trembling under my touch, muscles locking up tight. He jerks his head to the side, staring hard at the espresso machine. His knuckles go white around the pitcher handle.
"You're shaking again." I pull my hand back, frowning. "Seriously, Ethan, are you that weak?"
"I'm not..." His voice comes out strained. "Not used to being this close to people."
I study his profile. There's a vein standing out on his neck. His jaw is clenched so hard I can see the muscle jumping. He's breathing like he just ran a sprint.
There it is again. That trembling. Like my presence overwhelms him. The great Ethan Thornfield, crown prince of Royal Peaks, reduced to a shaking mess because I stood too close.
I shouldn't enjoy this power dynamic. I really shouldn't.
But god help me, I do.
"Try it yourself now." I step back, crossing my arms. "And stop shaking, you'll ruin the foam."
He takes a deep breath, grips the pitcher again. His hands are still trembling slightly, but when he pours, the heart shape comes out perfect.
"Not bad." The admission costs me. "For a beginner."
"Thank you." He still won't look at me.
I disappear into the storage room, diving into the back of the cabinet. My fingers close around black fabric. I pull out the apron I'd ordered months ago as a joke.
"Moonbean's Good Boy" stares up at me in bold white letters. There's a cartoon coffee cup underneath, smiling stupidly.
Five years ago, Ethan Thornfield stood next to me under the Moonstone and represented everything I'd never be. Whole. Complete. Worthy. He didn't mean to humiliate me, probably didn't even realize he had. But the result was the same. I'd spent five years feeling defective, incomplete, less than.
If he wants my shelter, he can wear my shame.
"Put this on." I walk back out, holding up the apron with a smile that probably looks more vicious than friendly. "You're working the front counter today."
He takes it. Reads it. His expression goes carefully blank, but I catch the way his jaw tightens, the flush creeping up his neck.
"Problem?" I arch an eyebrow. "I thought you said you'd do anything."
"No problem." He takes a slow breath and starts tying it on.
The black fabric looks good on him. Too good. The words stretch across his chest, impossible to miss. His face is carefully neutral but his neck is red.
Watching him tie that ridiculous apron, seeing the flush creep up his skin, the way his jaw clenches. It shouldn't feel this good. Making him wear it, making him serve customers in it, having him follow my orders. It's petty. It's beneath me.
But after five years of feeling like I wasn't good enough, wasn't whole, having him here, dependent on my mercy, marked by my words?
I earned this.
He straightens up, adjusting the apron strings. Even wearing that humiliating thing, he somehow maintains a kind of dignity. It's infuriating. And kind of attractive.
I turn away fast before he can see my reaction. "Store opens in three minutes. Stand at the register. Smile at the customers. Be polite. And don't embarrass me."
"Understood."
The first customers arrive at 6:10. Three young women, regulars who usually come in chattering about their morning runs. They push through the door and stop dead when they see Ethan behind the counter.
"Oh my god," one of them whispers, not quietly enough. "Who is that?"
Ethan smiles politely. "Good morning. What can I get you?"
"So you're Mia's Good Boy?" The first woman giggles, reading his apron.
"I work here, yes."
"Are you single?" The third one leans on the counter. "New to Silver Creek?"
"Just here to work." His tone stays polite but distant. "Your order, please?"
I'm making their drinks at the espresso machine, and my hands are moving harder than necessary. The spoon clangs against the cup rim. My eyes keep drifting to the front counter.
What am I, jealous? That's ridiculous. He's just my employee. My temporary responsibility. It doesn't matter if those women are practically drooling over him.
He's nothing to me. Nothing.
So why does my chest feel tight every time one of them laughs and leans closer?
The morning rush builds. More women keep coming in, way more than usual for a Tuesday morning. Someone's taking pictures. Not of their coffee. Of him.
A woman at the counter reaches out to touch Ethan's arm. "You must work out a lot..."
Ethan steps back smoothly, maintaining distance. "Your latte is ready, ma'am."
Something snaps in my chest.
"Ethan." My voice comes out louder than I intended. "Storage room. Now. We need to restock."
"Yes, Mia." He follows immediately, leaving behind a group of disappointed women.
The storage room door closes behind us. The space feels smaller than it did this morning. I don't turn around immediately.
"Did I do something wrong?" His voice is careful.
"No." I face the shelves, pretending to check inventory. "We actually do need to restock."
Liar, something in my head whispers. You just couldn't stand watching them touch him.
"I need the Ethiopian beans." I point at the top shelf. "Can't reach."
Ethan moves closer. Reaches up. He's not quite tall enough, has to lean in. His chest nearly touches my back as he stretches past my shoulder for the coffee bag.
We both freeze.
His breath hits my neck. Warm. Unsteady. His whole body starts trembling again, worse than before. I feel every muscle in his back go tense, rigid, like he's fighting some massive internal battle.
"Ethan?"
His breathing gets harsher. Heavier. He's gripping the coffee bag so hard I hear the material crinkle. His head whips to the side.
For a second there, I felt something. Like an electric current between us. A pull I couldn't name. But that's impossible. I haven't awakened my wolf. There's no bond to feel.
Just physical attraction. Chemistry. Which I'm absolutely NOT going to act on.
"Got it." His voice comes out hoarse.
He grabs the bag and backs up fast, turning away from me. His shoulders are heaving.
"You okay?" My heart is doing weird things. "You're shaking like crazy."
"I'm fine." He still won't face me. "Just... the bag was heavier than expected."
He's lying. I know he's lying. But I can't figure out why.
"Put those by the espresso machine." I clear my throat, forcing my voice back to cold. "And get back to the counter. Lunch rush will start soon."
"Yes, Mia."
He leaves quickly. I stand alone in the storage room, my hand pressing against my neck where his breath touched. The skin there still tingles.
The attic is silent except for rain starting to tap against the window. It's past 11 PM. Ethan sits on the mattress, finally alone, finally able to drop the mask.
He pulls a worn leather sketchbook from the bottom of his backpack. Opens it to the first page. Eighteen-year-old Mia, standing under the Moonstone, hope and fear written across her face.
Every page is her. Mia laughing. Mia focused on making coffee. Mia angry. All from memory, drawn over five years of separation.
He picks up a pencil. Finds a blank page. Starts sketching.
This morning. Mia standing behind him at the espresso machine, her hand covering his on the pitcher. Morning light in her hair. That look of concentration mixed with satisfaction, like she enjoyed having power over him.
His pencil moves across the paper, capturing the curve of her jaw, the set of her shoulders, the slight smirk at the corner of her mouth.
She has no idea what she does to him. No idea that every touch, every command, every moment of forced proximity is both heaven and hell.
