Archive of Our Own ^beta

The rain was being exceptionally difficult today. Not enough to stay inside, but just annoying enough to make standing outside feel like a personal attack.

Henry hadn’t brought an umbrella. He didn’t even own one, come to think of it. Which meant he was stuck, half-watching the sidewalk from the front window of the library, slowly pacing like he might go somewhere.

The library had been open for three weeks, and to his shock, people were actually coming in. There was a knitting group that met near the bay window on Monday afternoons, a local author talk was scheduled for next month, and Wednesday craft activities that somehow kept growing in attendance which left him never knowing how much glue to buy.

It was good. Settled. It felt like the town had taken a tentative step toward him, and maybe he’d have to stop taking steps back.

Except for the coffee shop next door.

He’d been in there before. Twice, actually. Both times Duncan had been behind the counter. Loud, fast-talking, strangely endearing. Henry had liked him immediately. Ordered the same thing both times (chammonmile), and Duncan had remembered on the second visit.

But the other owner had remained a mystery.

Zora, someone had said. A name passed along like folklore. Duncan had mentioned her once or twice, offhandedly, usually followed by something like “She’ll kill me if I forget to restock the oat milk again.”

Which made today... a new opportunity.

The rain gave him an excuse to get away. And maybe, he thought, the excuse would be enough to get him through the door of the neighboring business.

He grabbed his jacket, braved the misty air, and walked the six steps from the library to the café next door.

The bell gave a soft chime overhead.

She was behind the counter.

And- well. Okay.

That part he hadn’t quite prepared for.

She was busy. Wiping down the espresso machine, moving fast in a way that looked practiced and confident and not the least bit approachable. Her brow was slightly furrowed in focus, like she was solving a very precise math problem in her head. She had that air of sharpness about her, the kind of person who knew how to talk to people and could tell instantly if someone didn’t.

Which, unfortunately, Henry almost certainly didn’t.

Before he had time to turn and flee, he found himself standing at the register.

No Duncan. No buffer. Just her.

So this was the other owner.

God help him.