Page 99 of Found by the Pack

Inside, the air is warm, rich with the scent of melted chocolate, cinnamon, and vanilla. A row of copper pots hangsbehind the counter, steam rising from two of them as milk froths and dark cocoa swirls.

The owner, an older woman named Maren, has been running the place since before I moved here. She greets us with her usual smile, silver hair piled in a messy bun, apron dusted with cocoa powder.

“Shepard,” she calls. “Bringing someone new?”

Sadie flushes slightly, but I nod. “Sadie. She’s the muralist.”

Maren’s eyes light. “Ah! The phoenix. I saw it this morning—stunning. First cup’s on the house for you, dear.”

Sadie blinks, caught off guard. “Oh—I—thank you.”

We slide into a small booth near the window, the sea visible just beyond the glass, waves crashing against the rocks. The shop’s cozy, filled with mismatched chairs and shelves of board games, the kind of place where families linger for hours on rainy afternoons.

When the mugs arrive, they’re heavy and steaming, piled high with whipped cream and sprinkled with cinnamon. Sadie wraps both hands around hers, breathing in the scent like it’s anchoring her.

“Holy hell,” she murmurs after her first sip. “That’s… wow.”

“Told you,” I say, unable to stop my smile.

She laughs softly, and the sound eases something in me I didn’t realize was wound so tight. For the first time all day, she looks relaxed. Not painting, not performing for the town, not haunted by grief—just Sadie, in a booth with hot chocolate.

I let myself look at her a moment longer than I should, and the thought creeps in again—dangerous, undeniable.

If I’m not careful, I’m going to fall.

Although I’m not sure I haven’t already.

Sadie cradles her mug like it’s the only thing tethering her to the earth. The steam curls against her face, and for once,she doesn’t look like she’s calculating her every breath. She just looks… quiet.

I want to keep her like this, wrapped in calm and cocoa, as long as possible.

I take a sip of mine, rich and heavy on the tongue, then glance toward the counter where Maren’s stacking pastries into baskets. The sweet smell of sugar and warm bread rolls through the shop. My stomach growls.

“You want anything else?” I ask her.

She shakes her head, quick, like she’s not used to taking up space. “I’m okay.”

I grin faintly. “I want a bagel, and I’ll feel less guilty if I pretend I’m getting it for you, too.”

That pulls a smile from her, small but real. “Go on then.”

I push back from the booth, the wooden bench creaking under my weight. The Cocoa Nook isn’t big—just three booths, a scatter of tables, and the long counter where Maren presides like some cocoa-slinging queen—but it’s cozy in a way most Driftwood places are. Old wood floors, chalkboard menu, mismatched mugs. I like it. Always have.

“Two everything bagels, toasted,” I tell Maren, and she hums as she slides one into the oven. I lean against the counter while she works, my eyes drifting back to Sadie.

She’s got her head bent over her phone now, thumb swiping like she’s finally catching up on messages and for a second, I let myself imagine this as normal. Us. Sitting in a café like any couple, killing a Saturday morning with cocoa and bagels.

The fantasy’s sweet. Too sweet. Dangerous.

Maren hands me the bagels on a chipped ceramic plate, butter already melting into the cut halves. I thank her, drop a few bills in the tip jar, and head back to the booth.

But the second I round the corner, the air shifts.

Sadie’s not relaxed anymore. Not even close. Her face is chalk-white, lips parted but not moving, her eyes glued to the phone on the table. It’s angled away from me, but I catch a glimpse—movement on the screen, the faint loop of a video replaying over and over.

The look on her face guts me. Stricken. Wounded. Like someone reached across the ocean and cut her open with a single swipe.

I set the plate down carefully, sliding into the booth. “Sadie?” My voice is low, steady, the same tone I use when calming Gus during storms. “What’s wrong?”