The rain fell harder now, drumming against the café's windows in rhythmic pulses. It made the world outside blur — as if the sky, too, was grieving with her.
Catherine had decided to take the late shift. Not because the café needed her, but because she needed it. The thought of returning to an empty home — where her father's slippers still sat by the door, where the silence screamed — was too much.
The warm lights of the café, the smell of ground beans, the sound of milk frothing — these things comforted her in a way words couldn't.
As she kneaded the dough for a fresh batch of cinnamon buns, her mind, traitorous and aching, wandered back to him.
Maverick.
The name made her chest twist. His voice still lingered in her ears, his promises like broken glass scattered across her memories.
"Maybe it was just a coincidence he had work. Maybe I'm overthinking."
But then she remembered Rose's hand on his shoulder. Rose's smirk. His phone always ringing. His arms around her after walking through that door with someone else.
"Why does it always have to be her?"
She shut her eyes tight and took a sharp breath.
"I hate this feeling," she whispered to herself. "The feeling of needing to forgive someone who doesn't deserve it. The feeling of holding onto someone just because I've already lost everything else."
She swallowed hard and returned to the counter, her hands dusted in flour, the air warm with the scent of caramelizing sugar.
The rain kept pouring — steady, cleansing, relentless.
Then, a soft cough echoed from the front counter.
Catherine looked up, wiping her hands on her apron.
And there he was.
Soaked from the shoulders down, strands of jet-black hair falling loosely across his forehead. His coat was clinging to his lean frame, raindrops glistening like crystals across the shoulders. His skin was a pale, creamy olive, his jawline sharp, the stubble across his cheek almost sculpted. His light brown eyes — warm, unreadable, haunted — met hers with quiet intensity.
For a moment, she forgot how to breathe.
He gave a sheepish smile. "Sorry," he said, voice low and smooth like a song you'd hum without realizing. "Didn't mean to interrupt. Just needed something warm before I melt."
He smelled incredible — like rain, cedarwood, and something expensive she couldn't name.
Catherine blinked, suddenly aware of the heat rising to her cheeks.
"No interruption at all," she managed, her voice slightly breathless. "Rough weather tonight."
"Yeah," he nodded, pulling off his wet coat and draping it neatly over the back of a chair. "Didn't expect the sky to open up like that."
"What can I get for you?"
"Hot latte. Oat milk, if you've got it."
"We do," she said, already turning toward the machine, grateful for something to focus on. "Coming right up."
As she prepared his drink, she couldn't help but glance at him again through the soft steam rising from the milk. He stood there calmly, looking around the café like he wasn't in a rush — like he wanted to be here.
And for the first time in days, Catherine wasn't thinking about Maverick.
She was thinking about this stranger with a storm in his eyes and kindness in his smile.
When she handed him the cup, their fingers brushed briefly.
He looked down at the latte and then up at her. "Thanks," he said. "I needed this more than I thought."
Catherine smiled, a small, genuine one. "So did I."
He raised a brow slightly. "Long day?"
"Long week," she replied. "Month, maybe."
He gave her a look that didn't pry but understood. "I get that."
She glanced toward the window. "You're soaked. Do you… want a towel or something? Or to wait for the rain to die down?"
"If it's not too much trouble," he said. "And maybe one of whatever's making this place smell like heaven?"
She laughed, just a little. "Cinnamon buns. Still baking. You'll have to wait."
"I can do that," he said, and sat by the window with his latte, pulling a notebook from his bag.
Catherine stood behind the counter, watching him as the rain blurred the city outside, and for the first time in what felt like forever…
…she didn't feel lonely.