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4

SADIE

I t’s five a.m. when my alarm buzzes low beside the bed. I’m already half awake, eyes on the ceiling, listening to the wind rattle the bay windows. The cold creeps through the walls like it owns the place, but I don’t mind it. Mornings like this are mine. Still. Predictable. Safe.

I dress fast—layers, flannel shirt, jeans, thick socks, boots—and walk into town. I know I could drive, but there’s something about making the walk each day that appeals to me more than the warmth and comfort of my Jeep. I head around to the back of the café. I never turn on the lights out front. I always enter the bakery from the back door. I usually leave the same way, but last night Zeke had walked me home, and we’d left through the front door. I unlock the kitchen door and breathe in the stillness like it’s medicine. Then I put on my apron, get my baking supplies, and start preheating the ovens.

Cinnamon rolls always come first—yeast, sugar, butter. Cinnamon. I know the measurements by heart. The routine grounds me. It tells my body I’m here, not there. That yesterday didn’t follow me in. That the man who grabbed me outside the café is gone. That Zeke didn’t feel like a storm I wanted to step into. That he wasn’t heat that stuck to my skin after he walked me home and checked every damn window like he’d claimed the walls as his own.

Flour dusts the counter. The scent of brown sugar blooms through the kitchen. By the time the second batch of scones is in the oven—cranberry orange—I’ve found my rhythm again. Knead. Fold. Cut. It’s not peace, exactly, but it’s close.

Then, I hear boots on the stairs. I pause, rolling pin in hand, every part of me suddenly tuned tight. I remind myself Zeke lives upstairs now. This is part of the deal. No one’s breaking in. This isn’t Brent.

Still, when I turn, Zeke’s already there.

Big. Broad. Silent as stone and just as unmoving. He fills the space with his presence alone, like the room shrinks to accommodate him. No knock. No warning. Just calm, steady eyes scanning the kitchen like he’s assessing for threats between trays of muffins.

I don’t look up right away. I pretend to focus on the scones. But I feel him. The air changes when he enters. It’s not dramatic. It’s gravitational, as if everything in the room tilts toward him. His steps are soft, but I know they’re his. Controlled. Intentional. He doesn’t move like a man killing time. He moves like a man who makes it.

I glance over and catch his eyes on my hands—not judging, just watching. Calm. Steady. And somehow more intimate than if he’d touched me.

"Coffee?" I ask, because it’s safer than asking what he’s thinking.

He nods once. Doesn’t smile. Just steps deeper into the kitchen, and suddenly everything feels smaller. The walls. The space between us. My pulse.

I grab a mug—plain white, thick ceramic, no frills—and pour. I don’t ask how he takes it. I already know. When I hand it to him, our fingers don’t touch, but they could. That tiny space between skin and skin feels louder than the wind outside.

He takes the mug and sips once, eyes still on me. I wait for some sign—approval, comment, something—but all I get is that unreadable stillness he wears like armor. It’s not cold, but it’s not open either.

“I thought you might sleep in,” I say, turning back to the dough. My voice sounds casual, but I can hear the edge in it. Too light. Too aware.

“I don’t sleep late,” he answers, tone flat and low, like he’s stating a fact about the weather. “Especially not when someone left a mark on your wrist less than twelve hours ago.”

The words hit harder than I expect. Not because he says them like a threat. Because he remembers and says it like a promise.

I busy my hands again. Muffin tin. Scoop. Repeat. “You planning to do a perimeter sweep before every sunrise?”

“If I need to.”

I glance back at him, raising a brow. “Are you always like this?”

“Yep.”

I shake my head. “A man of few words.”

“A man who chooses his words carefully and doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.”

The corner of my mouth twitches, but I keep my smile buried. I’m not sure he’d know what to do with it. Or maybe I’m not sure I would.

He doesn’t sit. Just leans against the doorframe, watching the oven like he expects it to confess something. I move around him, aware of how close he is, how warm the air feels in that narrow space between our bodies. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just watches me with the same quiet intensity he wore when he stared down that guy in the street.

I speak before I think. “I don’t make all my tenants coffee in the morning.”

“Have you had many other tenants? Does that make me special?”

I have to stop and look at him closely. Did Zeke MacAllister just make a joke?

Zeke lifts the mug slightly—maybe to cover a smile. “Thanks; it’s good.”

That’s it. No effusive compliment. No flirt. Just that one simple sentence. And weirdly, it lands better than anything sweet ever could.

I look at him for a second too long, then turn back to the dough, cutting the last scone with more pressure than necessary. “Kitchen gets noisy around six, just so you know.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Good. Because I don’t tiptoe.”

“Neither do I.”

His voice is closer now. I glance sideways and find him just behind me, not crowding, but definitely in range. He’s looking at my hands again. Not the scones. Not the coffee.

The wrist. He’s still tracking it. I pull my sleeves down and say nothing. He doesn’t press. He just takes another sip of coffee, then nods toward the front of the café.

“I’m gonna do a walk. Lock the door behind me when I go.”

I nod, throat tighter than I expect. “Be careful.”

His gaze holds mine for a beat that stretches too long to be casual. “Careful is my middle name.”

“That’s an interesting name: Zeke Careful MacAllister.”

He snorts. “You’re sassing me, aren’t you?”

“Am I?”

He shakes his head, and then he’s gone—boots heavy, the door closing with a dull thud. I lock it, like he told me to, then lean against it, exhaling slowly.

Routine used to calm me. But now? I can’t seem to stop thinking about him.

* * *

By the time I’ve unlocked the front door and the bell overhead jingles, I’ve pulled myself together. The scones are out of the oven, the cinnamon rolls proofing for their second rise, and I’ve scrubbed the counters twice even though they didn’t need it. I tell myself it’s just habit, routine. Definitely not because a certain sheriff walked through my kitchen like he belonged there and left my pulse skittering like a live wire.

I expect the sound of boots to mean a regular—the delivery guy, maybe Ada early with her owl sweater and a half-finished paperback. But it’s not. It’s him. Zeke. Again.

This time, he doesn’t just linger by the door. He walks in like he never left, slow and controlled, his eyes scanning the room out of habit, not curiosity. There’s no surprise in his gaze when he finds me behind the counter. Just something unreadable—and locked tight.

“You forget something?” I ask, wiping my hands on a towel I suddenly wish wasn’t stained with blueberry batter.

His eyes flick to the closed kitchen door, then back to me. “Wanted another look at your security setup.”

“Right. Because I’m sure the muffin case is a known danger zone.” I arch an eyebrow. “Planning to interrogate the scone tray?”

Zeke doesn’t smile, but something shifts at the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t be the worst place to start. Place smells like it’s hiding something.”

“Flour and sugar,” I say. “That’s the secret.”

“Maybe.” His eyes sweep the café again, then settle back on me. “Quiet in here.”

“It’s early.”

He nods once. Then doesn’t move.

I tuck the towel over my shoulder and reach for a tray of clean mugs. My back’s to him, but I can feel him watching. Not like Brent used to. Not to control. To see. Which somehow makes it worse.

“You always up this early?” he asks.

“Always.”

“Is that a baker thing or a Sadie thing?”

I slide the mugs into the warming shelf, lips twitching. “Both.”

Zeke crosses the floor, footsteps steady, and leans a hip against the counter. He doesn’t ask for coffee this time. He just waits.

“You’ve been here long?” he asks.

“In the café or the town?”

“Both.”

I hesitate. It’s not that I don’t want to tell him. I just haven’t had to explain it to anyone new in years. People around here know enough to leave the past where it lies. Zeke, though—he has a way of looking like he sees every fracture line under the surface.

“About four years,” I answer, turning to pull plates from the shelf behind me. “Started working here. Then took it over when Maggie passed.”

“That the woman who owned it?”

I nod. “She was a lot tougher than she looked. She didn’t believe in excuses or weak coffee.”

“Smart woman.”

“She’d have liked you,” I say before I can stop myself.

That earns me a look. Not soft. But a little less guarded. “You think so?”

“She respected people who didn’t waste words.”

Zeke watches me as I set a tray on the prep counter. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You respect people like that?”

I reach for a set of ramekins, placing them in a carrying box. Keeping my voice even, I say, “I respect a lot of things, Sheriff. But respect, like trust, has to be earned, and I don’t just hand it out willy-nilly or without reason.”

“Those smell good. What’s in them?” he asks, nodding to the container.

“Baked eggs in stuffing with sausage. They’re headed up to a group of hikers. I can reheat them right before we take them up to their camp.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and when I glance over, he’s still watching me. Like he’s listening for the words I didn’t say. Then, almost casually, he nods to the tray. “You deliver those?”

I laugh under my breath. “I deliver, or have delivered, a lot of things. You offering to help?”

“If you’re short-staffed.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got Jenny coming in at seven. She’ll take them up.”

“I’m not afraid of earning my keep,” he says, voice smooth but anchored with something heavier. “Especially if it keeps you from dropping things.”

I lift the box, but I’m hyperaware of the way he moves—how deliberate it is. He measures every step and every word before offering them. Controlled men used to scare me. Zeke doesn’t. But he makes me feel more than I should.

“You always this hands-on, Sheriff?” I ask, trying to keep it light.

“Only when it counts.”

“That supposed to impress me?”

“Does it?”

I glance at him sidelong. “You’re a real confident man, Sheriff Serious.”

His eyebrow arches, slow and amused. “You like me serious.”

The tray almost slips from my hands. I catch it in time, but the clatter of ceramic against metal rings out sharper than I would have imagined. Zeke’s eyes track the movement, then flick back to my face.

I recover quickly. “That’s a bold assumption.”

“Not really,” he murmurs. “You’re not scared of serious. You fear unpredictable. There’s a difference.”

The way he says it—quiet, razor-precise—it cuts through my defenses faster than anything has in years. I swallow and look down, adjusting a coffee cup that doesn’t need adjusting.

“I’ve got to get these out front,” I say.

Zeke doesn’t stop me. He just steps aside, but not far.

As I pass, his voice follows—low, warm, dangerous in all the ways I’m not ready for.

“You let me know if anything feels off today.”

I pause at the door and look back at him. “Does that include you?”

He holds my gaze for a long beat. “I’m not off, Sadie. I’m exactly as I seem. That’s the difference.”

And the worst part is—I believe him.

The day rolls forward in a blur of coffee, orders, laughter that feels slightly off-kilter, and the steady churn of routine trying its best to drown out everything under my skin. It mostly works—until the shift ends and the café empties and there’s nothing left between me and the silence I’ve spent years learning how to survive.

Jenny’s gone. I wash the last mug. I count the money in the register drawer and close it.

And I’m alone.

I lock the front and head out back to put out the trash, lock up and head for my cottage. A second to breathe. To shake out the strange tightness that’s curled under my ribs since this morning, since Zeke walked into the kitchen like it was his to walk through.

I get to the cottage and let myself in. I don’t turn on the lights. Instead, I walk straight to the dresser, pull open the top drawer, and stare down at the folded piece of paper shoved beneath a pair of wool socks. The note.

I haven’t looked at it since the night it appeared. But I feel it. Like it hums. Like it’s still speaking even when I try not to listen.

KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT.

I pick it up, unfold it, and read it again. Same red ink. Same message. No signature. No doubt.

My fingers twitch. I want to burn it--strike a match, watch it curl and blacken into ash. I want to erase it like it never existed, like that part of me—the part that used to cower—no longer answers to this kind of threat.

But I don’t burn it. Instead, I fold it into a tight square and tuck it into my coat pocket.

The air outside bites, cold and still; even so I step onto the porch, wrapping my arms around myself and stare out at the bay. Normally, I do that from the comfort and warmth of my home, but sometimes when something rattles loose inside me and I can’t figure out how to cage it again, I need the frigid air to enter me. I breathe in deeply and feel the calm settle over me.

Footsteps crunch behind me a minute later. I don’t turn. I know it’s him. Zeke doesn’t announce himself. He steps onto the porch as if someone invited him. Like it’s his right.

I hear the creak of the wood under his boots as he leans against the railing beside me, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the dark line where the bay meets the sky. He doesn’t speak, and neither do I. We just stand there, shoulder to shoulder, not quite touching, silence between us like a held breath.

The wind gusts off the water, sharp and dry. I take in a deep breath and then exhale slowly.

“You got people here who don’t want to be seen?” His voice is quiet, but it carries.

I stare straight ahead. “I’ve got people who want me invisible.”

Zeke’s jaw clenches hard. I hear it more than see it—the flex of muscle, the way his whole body tightens like violence might be the only answer he trusts. “That ends now.”

The words don’t come soft. They land like a command. And maybe I should bristle—maybe I should push back, remind him I’ve been handling myself for years. But I don’t. Because something in the way he says it—controlled, measured, absolute—makes the fear in my chest quiet just a little.

“You don’t even know what I’m dealing with,” I say, trying for distance that doesn’t quite stick.

“I don’t need to know yet,” he says. “I’ll find out. But whoever thinks they can threaten you? They picked the wrong town… and the wrong sheriff.”

My heart jumps. It’s not romantic—not in the flowers-and-love-songs way. It’s something deeper. Older. Like protection that doesn’t need permission. I glance over at him, and even in the dark, I can see the intensity in his face. Not anger. Focus.

“I can take care of myself,” I say, softer this time.

“I don’t doubt it,” he answers, and it sounds like truth. “But now you don’t have to do it alone.”

That undoes something in me. It’s not fear. Not exactly. But it flutters low in my belly, sharp and warm. It coils through my veins and pulses beneath my skin. Want, maybe. Or the terrifying possibility that I’m beginning to trust him, and I don’t know if that’s safer—or more dangerous—than the note in my pocket.

The kitchen in the cottage is still. Not quiet in the empty way. Quiet in the held breath kind of way.

Zeke left ten minutes ago, his boots thudding down the porch steps, his shadow swallowed by the dark. I watched him go from the window, heart still pulsing in my throat like I’d just outrun something even though I hadn’t moved an inch.

I’ve been on my own for a long time. Even when I wasn’t technically alone. Even when Brent was breathing down my neck and calling it love. I’ve forgotten what it felt like to have someone mean it when they say they’ll keep you safe.

And Zeke… he means it. That’s the problem.

I lock the door. The deadbolt clicks like punctuation, and I lean my back against it. My hands are icy. Not from the air, but from memory.

I go through the motions—light the fire, make a cup of tea I won’t finish, tuck a blanket around my legs as I curl into the old armchair Maggie used to call her ‘thinking throne.’ The wind whistles under the eaves, and somewhere outside, a branch scrapes the siding.

I try to read. Try to lose myself in the pages. But I keep glancing up, expecting something. Dreading something. Wanting something I shouldn’t.

I pick up my phone. My fingers hover over Zeke’s name—just Zeke, nothing else—and for a second, I consider it. Just to say thank you. Or that the cafe has been locked. Or that I’m… fine.

But I don’t text. I put the phone down face-down and bury my hands beneath the blanket.

Fine feels like a lie I’m tired of wearing.

I close my eyes, and Zeke’s voice echoes back— ’Now you don’t have to do it alone.’

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t an offer. It was final—a statement of fact. For the first time in years, I think I might want to believe it.

That’s when I hear it. Not the wind. Not the usual creaks of the cottage settling. This is sharper. A scrape. Close. Too close. It sounds like it’s coming from the back, near the kitchen window. My whole body goes still. My breath catches before I can even think.

I stand, slow and silent, the chill of the floorboards pressing into my bare feet. My eyes lock on the hallway as I cross to the hearth and wrap my fingers around the fire poker—solid iron, heavier than it looks. I grip it tight, the weight grounding me. Another noise. Softer this time. Hesitant.

I move carefully, my body coiled tight, every step deliberate. My heart hammers in my chest, but I keep going, because I have to. Maybe Zeke’s right. Maybe this isn’t over. Maybe I’m not alone.

I reach the kitchen, press my back to the wall, and angle myself toward the window. The curtain stirs slightly, but the glass is intact. Nothing moves inside.

Then I hear it again—louder this time, but definitely outside.

I ease toward the window, eyes scanning every shadow, and that’s when I see it. The shutter. One of the hinges has come loose in the wind. It shifts again, slamming lightly against the siding.

I exhale hard, the tension in my chest easing just a little. There’s no one here. No threat. Just wind and wood and nerves stretched too thin.

Still, I keep the poker in my hand a while longer. Just in case.