Betsy starts making the sound at 6:47 AM, thirteen minutes before I'm supposed to open, which is exactly the kind of timing that makes me believe the universe has a sense of humor and I am frequently the punchline.

It's not a bad sound, exactly. More like a complaint. A low, mechanical whine that sits underneath the normal hiss and gurgle, the kind of noise that says I'm not broken yet, but I'm thinking about it. I've learned to listen to Betsy the way some people listen to their cars or their bodies or their mothers—alert for the subtle shift that means something's about to go sideways.

I do what any rational business owner would do: I panic quietly, make myself a shot of espresso to think, and then text Todd.

Betsy's making a noise. Not urgent. Probably fine. Maybe not fine.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Be there in twenty.

I spend the next twenty minutes alternating between telling myself it's nothing and catastrophizing about the cost of a new espresso machine and also somehow managing to knock over the same container of cinnamon twice.[^1] The second time, it goes everywhere—counter, floor, my left shoe—and I'm on my hands and knees with a dustpan when the bell rings.

"The cinnamon attack you?"

Todd's standing in the doorway, toolbox in hand, wearing the same flannel he always wears, looking at me like finding people covered in spices on the floor is just a normal Tuesday morning occurrence. Which, to be fair, in this shop it kind of is.

"It's a recurring conflict," I say, standing up too fast and bumping my head on the counter. "We have history."

He doesn't laugh, but something shifts around his eyes. That almost-smile he does. "Let me hear her."

I pull a shot. Betsy whines.

Todd listens the way a doctor listens to a heartbeat—head tilted, completely still, like the answer is somewhere in the frequency if he can just find it. After thirty seconds he nods once.

"Valve's wearing. Not urgent, but it'll get worse." He's already packing up his toolbox. "I'll grab the part, come back around lunch."

"You don't have to—I mean, if you're busy—"

"I'm not busy."

And then he's gone, bell chiming behind him, and I'm standing there holding a dustpan full of cinnamon wondering why my face feels warm.

The morning rush is manageable. Patricia gets her usual complicated order. Walter draws his smiley face. The regulars cycle through like they always do, and I make their drinks on autopilot because my hands know the rhythm even when my brain is elsewhere.

I catch myself glancing at the door more than necessary.

This is annoying. I'm annoyed at myself. There's no reason to be watching for him—he said lunch, it's 10:30, lunch is not 10:30 by any reasonable definition—and yet every time the bell rings my head snaps up like a golden retriever hearing a treat bag.

Lean not on your own understanding. The verse surfaces unbidden, and I almost laugh because I'm pretty sure Proverbs wasn't talking about espresso machine repair, but maybe it was talking about this—the white-knuckle grip I keep on everything, the need to control and predict and prepare for disaster. Maybe trust looks like letting the morning unfold without trying to manage it.

I make myself a pour-over to calm down. Guatemalan, chocolatey, grounding. I drink it too fast and burn my tongue, which feels appropriate.

He comes back at 12:15, part in hand, and fixes Betsy in exactly eleven minutes. I know because I'm watching, and also because I'm trying not to watch, which means I'm hyperaware of every second.

"Should hold for a while," he says, wiping his hands on a rag. "Let me know if the sound comes back."

"I will. Thank you. What do I owe you for the part?"

"Nothing."

"Todd—"

"It was twelve dollars."

"Then let me pay you twelve dollars."

"Or," he says, "you could make me one of those things." He nods toward the espresso machine. "The small one. With the milk."

"A cortado?"

"If that's what it's called."

I make him a cortado. Single origin, Colombian, because it's what I have dialed in and because I want it to be good and I'm not going to think too hard about why I want it to be good. Equal parts espresso and steamed milk, served in the small glass because that's how it's supposed to be done.

He takes a sip. "This is good."

I don't explain the origin or the roast or the ratio. Don't info-dump about extraction times or milk temperature. Just say: "I know."

He almost smiles again.

And then he doesn't leave.

He sits at the counter, drinking his cortado slowly, and I make drinks for the lunch trickle—a mocha for a woman in scrubs, black coffee for a guy in a suit who's clearly having a day, an Americano for Earl who wandered over from the antique shop because he "smelled something good," which is a lie because you can't smell coffee from two doors down but I appreciate the effort.

Todd stays through all of it. Doesn't say much. Just... present. Taking up space in a way that doesn't feel intrusive, like he belongs at that stool, like he's always been there.

At 1:30 he stands up. "I should get back."

"Yeah. Of course. Thank you again. For Betsy."

"I'll stop by later. Make sure the fix held."

He's out the door before I can tell him that's not necessary, that I'll text if there's a problem, that he doesn't need to—

The bell chimes.

I stand there holding his empty cortado glass, and I don't know what my face is doing but I'm grateful no one's watching.

The afternoon is slow in that golden fall way, light slanting through the windows, the shop half-empty and peaceful. I catch up on dishes. Wipe down tables. Reorganize the book exchange shelf for no reason except that my hands need something to do.

I'm not waiting.

I'm definitely not waiting.

At 5:45, fifteen minutes before close, the bell rings.

"Thought I'd check on her," Todd says, like this is normal, like three visits in one day is just standard equipment maintenance protocol.

"She's been quiet all afternoon."

"Good." He doesn't move toward Betsy. Doesn't pull out his toolbox. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, looking at me looking at him.

"I was going to order Chinese," I hear myself say. "If you want. I mean. If you're hungry. You don't have to."

"I could eat."

We end up on the floor of the back room, backs against the deep freeze, eating lo mein from containers with the chopsticks they always throw in even though I'm terrible at chopsticks. I've given up and switched to a fork. Todd's still using his, methodically, like he approaches everything—patient, unhurried, unbothered by difficulty.

The deep freeze hums behind us. The shop is quiet, closed sign flipped, just the two of us and the fluorescent light and the smell of soy sauce.

"You do this a lot?" he asks. "Dinner on the floor?"

"More than I'd like to admit." I stab a piece of broccoli. "It's my spot. When things get overwhelming. I just... sit here."

He nods like this makes perfect sense.

We eat in silence for a while. Not awkward silence—the other kind. The kind that doesn't need filling.

And I realize, somewhere between the lo mein and the egg roll I'm saving for last, that I haven't explained myself once today. Haven't justified or over-talked or spiraled into anxious tangents about why I texted or why I offered dinner or what any of this means.

I just... was.

And he just... stayed.

Something loosens in my chest. Something I didn't know I was holding.

"Thank you," I say. "For coming back. All three times."

"Valve needed checking."

"The valve was fine after the first fix."

He looks at me then. Really looks. And there's something in his expression I can't quite name—warm and steady and terrifying in the best possible way.

"Yeah," he says. "It was."

He doesn't say anything else. Neither do I.

But when he leaves an hour later, taking his half of the leftovers because I insisted, the shop feels different. Fuller, somehow, even though it's empty.

I lock the door. Climb the stairs. Mabel's waiting in the chair, judging me with her slow blink.

"Don't look at me like that," I tell her.

She blinks again.

I fall asleep still smiling, which hasn't happened in a while, and for once I don't try to understand it.

Some things don't need explaining.

Some things just need trusting.[^2]

[^1]: The cinnamon and I have been in conflict since week two. It knows what it did.

[^2]: I'm learning this. Slowly. The trusting part. It's harder than it sounds.