Clara’s pov
The coffee shop two blocks from the diner had better hours than Marnie’s and quieter mornings.
I started going there on my rare early breaks when the heat in my chest got too loud and I needed somewhere that wasn’t the alley behind the dumpster.
The place was small, three tables, a counter, and a chalkboard menu that barely changed.
The guy behind the espresso machine never said much. Dark hair, glasses, always in a plain black apron. He moved like he preferred the machines to people.
The first time I ordered he just nodded, made the coffee, and slid it across without small talk. I liked that.
I took the corner table, wrapped both hands around the cup, and let the ordinary human noise settle the restless feeling under my ribs.
The third time I came in he glanced up an
