Chapter 3

The coffee cart was busy when I arrived. Three people in line, all of them the same type of well-dressed businessman I'd noticed in the morning. I hung back, pretending to check my phone while I watched.

Zeph's interactions with his customers seemed normal on the surface. Polite small talk, coffee orders, payment exchanges. But there was something underneath. The way he made eye contact. The specific way he handed over certain drinks. Like there was a whole conversation happening that I couldn't hear.

When the line cleared, I approached the window.

"You again," he said, but there was almost a smile in his voice.

"Me again." I leaned against the counter. "How's business?"

"Can't complain."

"Good location?"

His eyes flicked around the street before meeting mine. "It has its advantages."

I decided to test something. "So tell me about your suppliers. Are they reliable?"

Zeph went very still. "My suppliers?"

"You know. Coffee beans, milk, cups. The usual stuff." I kept my voice casual, but I was watching his face carefully. "I mean, with your coffee quality being so... specific, you must have some pretty particular sources."

Something shifted in his expression. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition.

"Some suppliers are more trustworthy than others," he said slowly. "You have to be careful who you do business with."

"I imagine. And the beans themselves – do you source them locally?"

"Some of them. Others come from further away." He paused, cleaning the same spot on the counter twice. "Certain beans require special handling. More delicate than they appear."

My heart started beating faster. We were talking about coffee, but we weren't talking about coffee at all.

"That sounds complicated."

"It can be. Especially when you're dealing with high-stakes orders."

"High-stakes?"

"The kind where one mistake could ruin everything."

I stared at him. He was trying to tell me something, I was sure of it. But what?

"What about your regular customers?" I asked. "Do they understand the complexity of what you're doing?"

"Most of them just want their usual order. They don't ask questions." His eyes met mine directly. "But some customers are more... observant."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Depends on the customer."

A chill ran down my spine. "And what kind of customer am I?"

Zeph didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned to make me a drink. I hadn't even ordered anything, but he seemed to know what I wanted.

As he worked, I found myself watching his hands again. Quick, efficient movements. The kind of precision that came from practice. But not the kind of practice you got from being a coffee shop employee for a few months.

This was muscle memory. Professional training.

"One caramel macchiato," he said, sliding the cup across the counter. "No foam, extra hot, light syrup."

I looked down at the cup and froze.

There, drawn in the foam with perfect café latte art precision, was a small heart.

My throat went dry. "You drew on my coffee."

"Accident," he said, but his ears turned slightly red.

I picked up the cup, trying not to let my hands shake. "Thanks."

"Izzy." His voice was quiet, serious. "Be careful who you ask questions about coffee suppliers."

"Why?"

"Because some people in this business don't like curious customers."

Before I could respond, his next customer approached. Another businessman, this one with silver hair and an expensive watch.

I stepped aside but didn't leave. Instead, I pretended to drink my coffee while listening to their interaction.

"The usual?" Zeph asked.

"Actually, I'd like to try something different today. Maybe something... stronger."

"How much stronger?"

"Strong enough to handle some difficult mornings coming up."

Zeph nodded. "I think I have something that might work. But it's not on the regular menu."

"That's fine. I trust your judgment."

As I watched Zeph prepare the man's drink, I noticed he reached for a different set of supplies. Not the regular coffee beans, but a small container he kept hidden under the counter.

The businessman left with his drink and a satisfied smile. But not before shaking Zeph's hand in a way that lasted just a little too long.

When the area was clear again, I approached the cart.

"Interesting customer," I said.

"They all are." Zeph was cleaning up, not meeting my eyes.

"That didn't look like a normal coffee order."

"Maybe you should stick to what you know best."

"And what's that?"

"Law. Justice. The legal side of things."

The way he said it made me pause. "Are you suggesting the coffee business isn't legal?"

"I'm suggesting that some businesses operate in gray areas."

My prosecutor instincts were screaming now. "Zeph, what kind of trouble are you in?"

"The kind that's better left alone."

"I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because..." I stopped myself before I could say something stupid. Something about still caring about him. "Because I'm a prosecutor. It's my job to investigate suspicious activity."

"And is that what this is? Professional interest?"

I looked down at my coffee cup, at the little heart dissolving slowly in the foam. "I don't know."

"Iz." His voice was softer now. "Some things are bigger than they appear. Some investigations have consequences you can't predict."

"Are you asking me to look the other way?"

"I'm asking you to trust me."

"The last time I trusted you, you broke my heart."

The words came out harsher than I intended. Zeph flinched like I'd slapped him.

"That's fair," he said quietly.

We stood there in awkward silence. I should leave. I should go back to work and pretend this conversation never happened.

Instead, I found myself remembering why I'd fallen for him in the first place. The way he could think three steps ahead of everyone else. The way he protected people without them even knowing they needed protection. The way he made me feel like we were partners, like we could handle anything together.

God, I was still in love with him.

The realization hit me like a physical blow. After eighteen months of telling myself I was better off without him, here I was, ready to throw away my career just to understand what he was mixed up in.

"I should report this," I said, but there was no conviction in my voice.

"But you won't."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're here. Because you keep coming back." He paused. "Because you never stopped caring, even when you wanted to."

He was right, and we both knew it.

I finished my coffee in silence, hyperaware of every sip that erased his little heart. When I was done, I crumpled the cup and tossed it in the nearby trash can.

"Same time tomorrow?" Zeph asked.

"This is crazy."

"Yeah. It is."

But I was already nodding. "Same time tomorrow."

As I turned to leave, he called my name.

"Iz?"

I looked back.

"Check your cup holder."

I frowned, then looked down at the cardboard sleeve around my empty cup. There was something tucked inside it.

A small piece of paper.

I pulled it out, unfolded it, and read the message written in Zeph's familiar handwriting:

Meet me tonight. Pier 47, 9 PM. Come alone.