Coffee and Curiosity

The apartment wasn’t much.

A single-room studio above the diner, with old wood floors that creaked in protest, a mattress on a rusty metal frame, a narrow window that overlooked the alley, and a kitchenette consisting of a hot plate, a chipped sink, and a mini-fridge that buzzed louder than the neon sign downstairs.

But it was hers. For now.

Jordyn stood in the doorway that first night, bag slung over one shoulder, and let the quiet settle around her like a blanket she hadn’t known she needed. There were water stains on the ceiling, a crack in the corner of the single-pane window, and the faint smell of coffee that had seeped into the walls from years of brewing below.

Still, there was a lock on the door.

And no one yelling.

She dropped her bag by the foot of the bed and sat down slowly, testing the mattress. It sagged a little, but it beat the back seat of her car and the ache in her spine from too many nights curled against the cold.

A tear threatened to rise, but she blinked it away.

One step at a time.

-----

The alarm went off at 5:15 a.m.

Jordyn pulled her hair back into a low knot and washed her face in the tiny bathroom sink. She threw on a clean T-shirt and jeans, grateful for the diner apron Maisie had left hanging on the hook by the stairs. Her boots were the same worn ones she’d arrived in, still dust-caked from whatever stretch of road she’d left behind.

She took the steps down to the diner two at a time, the smell of fresh biscuits and brewing coffee already thick in the air.

Maisie was behind the counter, setting out silverware and humming Patsy Cline.

“You’re early,” she said without looking up.

“Didn’t sleep much,” Jordyn admitted.

Maisie handed her a clean rag and nodded toward the booths. “Start wiping down menus. Locals like to complain if they find syrup stuck to the backs.”

Jordyn got to work, grateful for something to do with her hands.

At 6:03, the bell above the diner door jingled.

He was back.

Same booth. Same quiet presence. Only this time, Jordyn actually looked at him.

Really looked.

Buzz-cut dirty blond hair, short on the sides, a little longer on top. Ice blue eyes, almost silver in the morning light, framed by lashes too long for a man who looked like he could break bricks with his bare hands. His skin was tanned from the sun, dusted with a fine line of sweat at the collar of his gray T-shirt, and his arms…

She blinked, quickly glancing away.

His forearms were roped with muscle, dusted with dirt and faint scrapes, like he’d been working before most people were awake. Tattoos curled along both arms, from his hands up to where they disappeared under his t-shirt snug tight around his biceps. She could pick out a horse and a longhorn, maybe a woman’s name. They looked like they each came with their own story, the kind that didn’t come easy. She couldn’t help but feel intrigued by them.

Jordyn straightened her apron and walked over, a pot of coffee in hand.

He looked up. Eyes soft, curious.

“Morning,” he said.

“You’re back.” She breathed out.

“Couldn’t stay away,” he said with a half-smile. “Coffee’s decent. View’s better.”

She hesitated. That could’ve been a line. But his voice didn’t push, it invited.

“Coffee still good?” she asked.

He smiled. “Only if you're pouring it.”

She blinked at the flirtation, unsure whether to shut it down or tuck it away. His tone was gentle, not pushy. Teasing, but respectful. The kind of thing she’d seen in movies but never experienced.

She poured coffee into the mug and took a couple steps back, creating some distance.

He picked up his mug, the same way he had the day before, but this time, she noticed how careful his hands were. Strong, but not careless.

She stepped away before she could think too much more about them.

From the counter, Maisie caught her watching him.

Maisie’s smirk was small but knowing.

Jordyn scowled, cheeks warming.

She wasn’t here for this. She wasn’t here for anyone.

But for the rest of the shift, she felt those ice-blue eyes on her.

Not in a way that made her feel small. Or hunted.

But like she mattered.

And that was dangerous.

She cleared his table after he left, mug empty, plate clean, not a crumb of toast in sight. He’d left cash, folded neatly beneath the check. She reached for it…

And paused.

There, scrawled on the back of the receipt in tidy handwriting, were twelve words:

If you ever want to see the stars without all these neon lights in the way,

I know a place. —D

Jordyn stared at it, heart thudding.

It wasn’t a pick-up line. It didn’t even ask for anything.

It was just... a door. Left unlocked.

She should’ve thrown it away. Should’ve stuffed it in the trash with the ketchup-stained napkins and empty sugar packets.

But she didn’t.

She folded it once, then again, and slid it into the back pocket of her jeans.

Just in case.