Chapter Text
Clara Whitfield walked down the main avenue of Willowcreek, fallen leaves crunching under her boots. All around, the trees of the town were alive with the rich hues of fall—brilliant yellows, deep reds, and fiery oranges. Golden leaves rained down from the trees in the light breeze, each one spinning gently through the air before scattering into piles along the sidewalk.
Walking through Willowcreek this time of year felt like stepping into a postcard or a storybook. The picturesque little town, nestled in the countryside, seemed to thrive on its charm alone. The main street was lined with quaint shop fronts, wooden signs hanging above them, many with fall-themed promotions and window displays. The season had taken over the residential areas as well, with fall decorations adorning homes and pumpkins stacked on porch steps one after another.
Clara couldn't help but smile as she passed Gale's bookstore, The Book Nook, with its cozy storefront. There was a small wooden cart out front with a sign saying "Grab a hot tea and a discounted mystery". Perched in the window amongst countless books was Tara, Gale's tabby cat, surveying each passerby with lazy indifference.
In the town square, preparations for the Harvest Festival had already begun, even though the event was still a week away. Some of the wooden structures for the festival were starting to take shape as the town's carpenters, Karlach and Lae'zel, already worked on them with their company, Fire & Steel.
It had been a little over a year since Clara had moved to town, so she'd only experienced the annual fall-themed festival once before. She could still vividly remember the buzz of the crowd and the laughter of children as the festivities unfolded in the town square. She found herself looking forward to the charming festival—a far cry from how she used to spend her time in the big city.
But today, Clara was headed to her favorite spot in Willowcreek, a small café on the corner of Main and Elm called The Last Brew. The little café had become her sanctuary, a place where she could spend hours working on her laptop while nestling a steaming cup of latte.
Recently, the café had descended into a bit of chaos after the only employee left, leaving the absent-minded owner struggling to keep it afloat. Still, Clara loved the place too much to stop going, and like many other townspeople, she kept returning to this important part of the community.
Clara felt a sense of ease wash over her as the familiar weathered brick façade of The Last Brew came into view, blending with the other rustic buildings around it. Large bay windows faced the street, framed by burgundy-colored shutters. A couple of iron-wrought tables with matching chairs were nestled near the windows.
Lanterns hung at the café entrance, ready to cast a soft, flickering glow as soon as dusk fell. Above the door, a hand painted wooden sign with the name of the café was hanging from wrought iron hooks, swinging gently in the wind. The door itself was painted the same color as the shutters.
Clara took a deep breath, enjoying the crisp autumn air and the promise of many cozy days spent in her favorite café working or curled up at home with a blanket and a good book.
The little bell above the door jingled as Clara stepped inside, announcing her arrival. As she entered, the warm scent of baked goods and freshly brewed coffee and spices enveloped her. She tugged off her scarf, shaking out her chestnut-brown hair, which fell in soft waves just past her shoulders.
The café was warm and inviting, with pendant lights casting a soft glow. A mix of plush armchairs and wooden tables was scattered throughout the seating area, each with mismatched but charming cushions, inviting customers to settle in with a book or laptop. The hardwood floors, covered with a collection of comfy rugs, added to the homely feel.
Shelves of plants—succulents, ferns, and ivy—breathed life into the space, along with local paintings and photos of Willowcreek. There was also a selection of books for customers to peruse while enjoying their coffee. A stone fireplace crackled in the corner, drawing people in on chilly days.
On one side of the café, a small chalkboard menu hung above a glass display case containing a variety of pastries and treats—flaky croissants, cinnamon rolls, and blueberry muffins. The chalkboard, decorated with peculiar doodles and daily specials, listed everything from espressos and cappuccinos to seasonal offerings like pumpkin spice drinks.
In one corner of the chalkboard was a cryptic message written in elegant script: “Beans hold secrets mortal eyes easily ignore.” Clara was sure it was the handiwork of Withers, the café's enigmatic owner, who often left strange messages like that on the board.
Clara's light brown eyes scanned the café, a small smile playing on her lips as she noticed her usual table by the window was free. Dressed in her oversized cardigan and jeans, she blended seamlessly into the warm atmosphere, her earthy-toned outfit matching the rich autumn colors outside.
Before taking her seat, Clara went to order her favorite drink. There were a few customers ahead of her, giving their orders, so she stood in line. Her fingers idly toyed with the sleeve of her cardigan as she waited—a habit she'd developed to calm her nerves during long writing sessions.
Clara's eyes wandered around the café, eventually landing on Withers standing behind the wooden counter. The owner of the café was a curious elderly man, tall and impossibly thin, his frame somehow both imposing and frail. His pale, almost parchment-like skin peeked out from under the rolled-up sleeves of his charcoal-gray button-down. His burgundy apron, bearing the logo of the café, was tied loosely over the shirt.
His deep-set eyes seemed to contain some hidden knowledge as he stood behind the polished wood counter, the barista’s domain, filled with all the tools of the trade, centered around a gleaming espresso machine that hummed with activity. Next to it were stacks of mugs—some plain, others with quirky designs—neatly arranged and ready to be filled.
The counter itself was spacious and well-organized, with syrup bottles of every flavor lined up, their colorful labels slightly faded and sticky from use. Above the counter, rows of shelves held everything from jars of fresh coffee beans to delicate tea tins, with the faint aroma of spices and vanilla drifting from them.
Finally, Clara's turn came, and she stepped up to give her order. Withers glanced at her as if he were emerging from deep thought.
"Good day, Withers. Just my usual this time, please," Clara said.
"The usual," Withers rasped.
"Yes, my usual," Clara confirmed, nodding. "You do remember it, don't you? I've been coming here daily for a year now."
There was a long pause as Withers stared at Clara. Finally, he spoke in a deep voice, carrying a sense of finality: "Yes."
"Great!" Clara said, sounding more cheerful than she was feeling as she noticed Withers immediately got lost in his thoughts again instead of starting to prepare her order, or the ones given by the customers before her. There was nothing to do but roll the dice and see if today was a day Withers would remember her order.
Clara made her way to her usual spot by the window—a cozy nook with a worn armchair and a small wooden table just big enough for her laptop and notes. The exposed brick walls, the enticing scent of freshly roasted coffee, and the quiet hum of clinking mugs, soft conversations, and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine created the perfect atmosphere for getting some work done.
The next couple of hours were a blur for Clara as she immersed herself in work, poring over other writers' manuscripts. Her editing flowed effortlessly for hours, fingers moving across the keyboard with practiced ease. She typed grammar corrections and suggestions like second nature. Lost in the rhythm of fixing sentence structures and tightening plot points, she didn't even notice that the latte she ordered never arrived.
Finally, she put her work aside and stretched her neck in preparation for what she really wanted to work on: the manuscript for her own novel. Then the same thing that always happened at this point occurred and everything ground to a halt.
The cursor blinked on a blank page, mocking her. She stared at the words she’d written earlier that week, unsure how to move forward or if she even liked what she'd typed. Now that she looked at it, it felt wrong, forced. The story she was trying to tell just wasn’t coming together, no matter how hard she tried.
Clara sighed and forced herself to write something, anything. Minutes passed as Clara became absorbed in her work. Words slowly filled the screen, but her thoughts were sluggish, tangled in doubts about her story. She barely noticed the occasional clinks and murmurs around her as customers came and went, too fixated on a particular paragraph.
It wasn’t until the sudden "Shit!" yelped right next to her and the warmth of liquid spilled across her open notebook and keyboard that she snapped out of her trance.
“Oh no!” Clara gasped, instinctively pulling her laptop away from the spreading pool of coffee and reached for napkins to dry out the little that had spilled on it. Meanwhile the coffee soaked her notebook pages, leaving ink-smeared smudges behind.
"Sorry. Looks like your laptop is caffeinated now," a female voice commented wryly.
Clara looked up and her breath caught for a moment. Standing there was a woman she had never seen in Willowcreek before, tall and composed despite the spill, with an expression of annoyance on her beautiful face. Her dark hair was tied back in a loose, casual braid, with side bangs to frame her sharp, striking features. Something about the woman's intense gaze and cool composure made Clara's stomach flip.
The woman was wearing the standard burgundy apron, and under it, a simple, snug black long-sleeve shirt and dark jeans, practical for the job. But her presence was anything but ordinary. She had an air about her, something almost guarded and wary. A quiet intensity, like she was used to keeping people at arm’s length.
Clara blinked at the comment, then let out a small laugh, catching the woman off guard. Instead of reacting with anger or frustration like some people would, Clara smiled and grabbed another napkin, starting to mop up the rest of the mess.
"Well, maybe my laptop will run a bit faster now," Clara replied with a light voice. "I would certainly love that upgrade."
The woman hesitated for a moment, clearly not expecting Clara to take it so well. Irritation had been evident on her face earlier, which was now morphing into something else—maybe amusement—but she quickly covered it. “I did you a favour then. Maybe I should take a part time job as an IT tech.”
Clara looked up again, meeting her gaze properly this time. She was struck by the woman's eyes—hazel green, with the green so vivid it almost glowed beneath the dim café lights. The color was piercing, drawing her in, framed by sharp black eyeliner and dark eyeshadow that made the vibrant green stand out even more.
Her eyes had a depth to them, like they could see straight through Clara’s exterior and into something deeper, something she wasn’t ready to reveal. For a second, Clara couldn’t look away from those eyes as she struggled to reply. “I haven’t seen you around town or here before. A newcomer and a new employee?”
"Uh-huh, it’s my first day on the job, and it’s going splendidly, as you can see," the woman muttered, setting down the tray and taking out a rag to help Clara dry off the mess.
"I'm one of the regulars, hanging around here almost daily. Clara's the name. Nice to meet you," Clara said, giving her a small smile.
"Shadowheart," the woman simply said, her attention on the cleaning. "And I’m surprised you’re finding our meeting 'nice' considering what just happened." She added, furrowing her eyebrows as she looked at Clara's coffee-stained notes.
"It’s your first day—some mishaps are bound to happen. I’m sure you’ll get better at the art of avoiding disasters soon enough," Clara said with an encouraging smile.
"For your belongings' sake, you should hope so," Shadowheart said wryly as she finished cleaning up. "There, that’s better."
"Thank you," Clara said.
"It’s literally the least I could do—" Shadowheart started and glanced at Clara’s notes. "Ms. Author."
"Clara was the name," Clara reminded her.
Shadowheart raised an eyebrow. "I hope you don’t expect me to remember your name. I have no intention of learning every customer’s name in this place."
"I think you’re out of luck there. In a small town like this, you’re bound to learn everyone’s name sooner or later," Clara said with a small chuckle, but when Shadowheart didn't immediately reply, she worried she had overstepped. Was she coming off as too familiar?
Before Clara could second-guess herself further, the new barista replied, "Who knows, I might develop selective amnesia..." Clara was sure there was a hint of playful teasing mixed into her sassy, mock-sweet tone.
"Oof, you wound me," Clara replied, clutching her chest in an overly dramatic manner, earning an amused eyebrow raise from Shadowheart.
"Speaking of selective amnesia," Clara said, realizing Withers had once again forgotten her order, "There’s another thing you could help me with..." Clara trailed off.
Shadowheart raised an eyebrow, waiting for Clara to continue.
"I ordered my usual, a regular latte," Clara started and checked her watch, her eyes widening, "Hours ago! But it seems to have gotten lost in the void once again."
"Oh hells..." Shadowheart groaned. "Come with me and we’ll sort it out."
Together they made their way to the counter, where Withers was nowhere to be found.
“Well, let me just make you the latte right now,” Shadowheart said, clearly confused by the sudden disappearance of her boss, even if she tried to play it cool.
Clara nodded and took a seat at the counter as she waited for Shadowheart to prepare it. Shadowheart moved behind the counter with quiet precision, her expression calm yet focused. Clara watched as she reached for the coffee grinder, and the soft hum filled the air as fresh beans were turned into fine grounds in no time.
“Fresh beans, always,” Shadowheart muttered, more to herself than anyone else, as though the coffee’s quality was a personal mission. She tapped the grounds into the portafilter, pressing them down with practiced firmness.
The espresso machine hissed to life as she locked the portafilter into place, pulling the perfect shot of espresso. Rich, dark liquid flowed smoothly into a ceramic mug, crowned with a thin layer of golden crema. Shadowheart spared the drink a brief, approving glance before moving to steam the milk.
She poured cold milk into a silver pitcher, then positioned it under the steam wand. The sound of steaming milk filled the café, a soft whoosh as she swirled the pitcher, coaxing the milk into a silky, smooth foam.
Clara leaned forward, her gaze drawn to Shadowheart's hands, captivated by their subtle beauty. Her eyes lingered on them as Shadowheart worked, her long fingers with neatly trimmed nails handling the equipment in a dexterous yet elegant manner. She was intrigued by the steadiness with which Shadowheart poured the steamed milk into the espresso. The motion seemed almost effortless, though Clara could tell it was anything but.
With a subtle flick of Shadowheart’s wrist, the milk spiraled into the cup, creating the base of the design. There was clearly some extra flourish added to her skilled movements after Shadowheart noticed Clara observing her.
As the pour continued, Shadowheart shifted her angle, the milk fanning out into intricate, feather-like patterns. Each line was deliberate, her control over the pitcher precise. She layered the shapes with perfect symmetry, the rosetta blossoming in smooth, fluid motions. The end of the pour was the most delicate—Shadowheart slowed, guiding the final flourish into place with an artist’s touch.
Shadowheart slid the mug toward Clara, her expression unreadable. Clara looked down at her latte, a soft smile tugging at her lips despite the earlier chaos. Instead of the simple heart she was used to seeing, the design in Clara's cup was nothing short of art.
The steamed milk had been poured with such finesse that it created a delicate, leaf-like pattern stretching across the surface. It started as a single, bold stem in the center, but from it sprouted curved layers of silky white leaves, each one fanning out gracefully in both directions. The pattern was so intricate that it resembled a fern unfurling in nature, with each layer carefully nestled within the last.
It was delicate, yet there was something deliberate and strong in the lines, a mastery in the details. Clara had never seen anything quite like it before, and she found herself lingering over the design, captivated by the care woven into each fold of foam. It was almost like an apology in a cup.
“This is very impressive. And beautiful,” Clara said, flashing a bright smile at Shadowheart. The smile came easily as she looked at her mug—a little piece of joy in a cup, brightening a day that had been filled with feelings of being stuck and defeated in her writing.
Shadowheart glanced at Clara, her working hands pausing their movements briefly. Her lips didn’t quite curve into a smile, but it was the closest Clara had seen so far. Shadowheart’s breath hitched slightly, barely noticeable. She cleared her throat, eyes narrowing slightly as if focusing on a task nearby.
“It’s on the house, since you’ve been waiting forever on top of the little spill,” Shadowheart muttered, staring at the counter, her expression returning to neutral.
“Thank you,” Clara murmured and took a sip. Her eyes widened at the taste, and she couldn’t help the little moan that escaped her lips. There was the tiniest look of satisfaction in Shadowheart’s eyes at the sound.
"It's absolutely delicious!" Clara declared, faint blush covering her cheeks.
“If you think that’s good, you should see—or rather taste—what I can do if I have my choice of beans and equipment, but alas, we’re not in my queendom,” Shadowheart replied, shrugging her shoulders.
“You have me intrigued,” Clara said. “But I guess I should let you get back to work,” she sighed, almost reluctantly.
Shadowheart nodded, and their eyes lingered on each other for a brief moment, making Clara’s heart flutter in her chest before she turned around and walked back to her seat. There was a residual heat lingering on her cheeks as she felt Shadowheart’s eyes on her back with each step.
As Clara sat down and watched the new barista work behind the counter, she couldn’t help but feel a bit captivated by her. The snarky attitude, the mysterious aura she seemed to carry with her. Her name alone was a mystery in itself—what kind of name was Shadowheart?
Shadowheart’s sudden arrival was definitely the most exciting thing that had happened in Willowcreek for weeks.
Clara drank the latte while staring out the window, watching the fall breeze play with the leaves on the street. Occasionally, she found herself glancing back at the new barista, a small smile tugging at her lips.
After finishing the drink, Clara got back to her writing. To her relief, she found her laptop still worked and hadn’t suffered any damage from the spill. Her notes hadn’t been as lucky, but fortunately, only the page that had been open was badly damaged by the coffee and it didn’t have much written on it.
To her disappointment, the caffeine hadn’t made the laptop run any faster, though. Nor had it learned to write for her as a consequence, so she was forced to continue her usual struggles. She bit her lip and slowly typed out a sentence, which she deleted just moments later.
This cycle repeated multiple times until she sighed in frustration and leaned back in her chair, rubbing her eyes. When she opened them again, she glanced at the counter and noticed Withers had never returned, leaving Shadowheart to deal with the busiest part of the day alone on her first day on the job.
There was a growing line of customers the new barista was trying to manage, moving busily behind the counter. The sound of the espresso machine filled the air, along with the clinking of mugs. Clara’s eyebrows furrowed in empathy—it seemed she wasn’t the only one struggling that day.
Hours passed as Clara alternated between staring out the window, trying to conjure words in her mind, and turning back to her laptop to type them out. She toiled away, shaping single words into sentences, which grew into paragraphs—only to delete them all with an irritated huff. Finally, she slumped in her seat, letting her eyes wander off the screen. Clara’s gaze landed on an equally frustrated Shadowheart, who was still manning the counter alone, the strain evident on her features.
Clara overheard customers complaining as Shadowheart started making small mistakes the more tired she got—a forgotten syrup here, a bit too much milk there. Shadowheart seemed to brush off the complaints with a cool exterior, but Clara could tell there was growing frustration simmering just below the surface. Her movements were a bit stiffer, her snark a tad sharper.
Only when her friend Wyll took a seat across from her, was Clara pulled out of her thoughts. He settled his plain cup of coffee down on the table. His gaze shifted from the open laptop and stained notes to Clara’s tense expression, as if gauging her mood.
“Hi there, I hope you don’t mind if I join you? I just got out of work,” Wyll asked, clearly unsure if he was interrupting Clara’s writing or not.
“Not at all, if anything, I could do with a break from this... this torment,” Clara said.
Wyll raised an eyebrow. “Having another writer’s block?”
“Mmm. Editing other people’s work? That part’s easy. I could do it for hours. But when it comes to my own novel, I just... stall out,” Clara said with another deep sigh.
“I sit down with the idea all outlined in my head, and then... nothing comes out. I can’t get past the first few lines. I don’t know if it’s self-doubt or just my brain refusing to cooperate.”
“Ah, the dreaded self-doubt.” Wyll leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. “You’re not alone there.”
Clara leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “But how do you get past it? You must’ve read hundreds of books. How do other authors make it look so easy?”
Wyll chuckled. “Well, most of those books you see in the library—they went through countless drafts, rejections, and rewrites before they ever hit the shelves. Trust me, even the best writers hit roadblocks.” He sipped his coffee, his sympathetic eyes meeting hers over the rim of his mug.
“But the trick is to keep going, even when it feels impossible. Let the bad drafts happen. At least then you have something to work with,” he continued.
Clara groaned. “Easier said than done. It feels like there’s a literal block in my mind, and nothing comes out even though I know what I should be writing.”
Wyll set his mug down, his tone becoming more serious. “You’re too focused on the outcome, perhaps. Writing should be messy at the start. Let yourself have the freedom to write something terrible, if only to get the words out of your head.”
Clara looked down at her half-dry notebook, brow furrowed. “It’s just... hard not to judge myself while I’m writing.”
“Maybe take a step back and think about why you’re writing this story in the first place,” Wyll suggested. “Sometimes you lose sight of what made you passionate about it. Go back to that spark. Remind yourself what you wanted to say when you first started.”
Before Clara could reply, the sound of clattering dishes from behind the counter interrupted their conversation. They both glanced over to see Shadowheart standing still, staring blankly at the sink piled with cups and saucers, clearly tired and a bit frazzled. The café had begun to empty as closing time approached, but a big mess had been left behind as Shadowheart hadn't had time to tend to any of it during her shift.
“The new barista is really on her own today, huh?” Wyll said, frowning as he noticed Withers was nowhere to be seen.
Clara nodded. “Her name is Shadowheart. And yes, I haven’t seen Withers since this morning. He even left her to handle the rush by herself.”
Wyll gave a low whistle. “Brutal first day.”
“Maybe we should show her some small-town friendliness and lend her a hand,” Clara said, casting a sympathetic glance at Shadowheart, who was still standing in front of the dishes, staring at them. “If she’s stuck cleaning all this up alone, that’s gonna be rough.”
Wyll looked at Clara thoughtfully, then back at the counter. “You're right, maybe we should step in before she drowns in coffee cups.”
Clara grinned, pushing her notebook to the side. “It's settled then!”
They both stood up, exchanging a determined glance before making their way to the counter, where Shadowheart looked up, clearly overwhelmed but still trying to maintain an air of calm.
“Hey,” Clara called out, catching Shadowheart’s attention. "I want you to meet my friend W—"
"Some call me the local librarian. Some call me the keeper of stories. But my friends just call me Wyll," Wyll interrupted her, introducing himself with a small bow and a self-satisfied little smile.
Shadowheart looked at him, less than impressed. "Excellent. If we ever become friends, I’ll know what to call you," she deadpanned.
Wyll's eyes widened, and he let out a small, awkward chuckle.
"Wyll and I were thinking, as this is your first day and all," Clara began cautiously, "that you could do with some help cleaning up? Looks like Withers bailed on you."
Shadowheart's expression became more guarded, as if she was trying to gauge their intentions. “I’m fine. It’s just... part of the job,” she said with a shrug, though her tone lacked its usual edge, and her exhaustion was evident.
Clara offered a small, sincere smile while playing with the sleeve of her cardigan. “We don’t mind helping. Besides, we both know how overwhelming a first day on the job can be—especially when your boss disappears into the land of forgotten tomes.” She nodded toward the closed backroom door where Withers had vanished.
Shadowheart let out a small, reluctant chuckle of disbelief at Clara’s comment. “That's what he's doing back there all day?”
"He has an office filled with dusty old tomes he pores over," Wyll explained.
"He just occasionally emerges from the backroom to make cryptic statements about life, death, and the futility of espresso machines," Clara continued, amused as she recalled a few instances of Withers doing so.
"This place was a mess before you arrived. Withers had a long-time employee, but they moved out. The one after that didn't last long. Was his name... Astatrion or something?" Wyll said, turning to Clara.
"Astarron?" Clara offered.
"Something like that. A pale, extremely snarky guy, and he didn’t stay long—neither in town nor in the job. One day he just left a mess behind in the café and then skipped town, never to be seen again," Wyll continued.
"After that, Withers has been running this place on his own. Every day is a gamble whether we get coffee or not," Clara said with a chuckle.
"That was until you arrived," Wyll added.
Shadowheart listened to them, staring. Unblinking.
"Uh-oh, we're scaring you off, aren't we?" Clara said nervously.
"Please, don't leave! Help us, Ms. Shadowheart, you're our only hope!" Wyll exclaimed with a hint of genuine desperation mixed into his playful quip.
"We really love this café, and we swear it's very lovely here!" Clara added.
"Yes! This place is the heart of the town! All the townsfolk love it," Wyll chipped in.
"Okay, okay, you two can calm down," Shadowheart said, rubbing her temples. "I'm not going anywhere. I need this job, anyway," she mumbled under her breath.
Clara and Wyll both let out an exaggerated sigh of relief, earning an eye roll from Shadowheart.
"So, what do you say? Wyll and I can start with the tables," Clara offered again.
Shadowheart took another look at the piles of dishes and the chaos on the tables. "Fine," she exhaled in mild defeat, "but don't expect any free coffee out of this," she added with a smirk, her sass returning even in her tiredness.
"I swear, we are not after free coffee," Clara said with a soft chuckle.
"We just want to give you a little taste of Willowcreek community spirit you can expect to receive while you're here," Wyll said with a genuine, warm smile.
Shadowheart nodded slowly, taking their words in as if she was hearing something alien and trying to make sense of it. But Clara noticed the strain on her face easing as they each set out to work.
Clara wiped down the tables, and Wyll started to sweep the floors as Shadowheart began her work behind the counter. For a while, they worked in comfortable silence. The sounds of tidying up and the gentle clinking of dishes were the only sounds in the emptying café. Every now and then, Clara would steal a glance at Shadowheart, who had rolled up her sleeves and was scrubbing the sink with more vigor than before.
The café’s warm, golden glow bathed the space in soft light as the world outside grew dark, the streetlamps flickering to life as night fell. The warm light spilled from the café onto the sidewalk, bathing the autumn leaves on the street in a soft glow.
When the café was finally clean, Shadowheart disappeared into the backroom to inform Withers that everything was done and her shift was over.
"How did it go?" Clara asked as Shadowheart walked back to her and Wyll standing by the door, waiting for her.
"He was sleeping. I heard snoring coming from the office, and no amount of knocking on the door stirred him," Shadowheart said, sighing. "So I left him a note."
"Does he live in there or something?" Shadowheart muttered as she locked the café door behind them.
"You know, he might," Clara said with a grin.
Shadowheart looked at Clara and Wyll, her snarky front briefly lowering. “Thanks. I guess I didn’t realize how much I’d have to juggle on the first day.”
“Everyone has rough starts, and you had extra obstacles," Clara said warmly.
"You’ll get the hang of it in no time,” Wyll added, smiling.
Shadowheart nodded, still guarded but slightly less so than before. “Yeah, maybe.”
With that, the three of them parted ways, the café now dark behind them.
As Clara walked home, a strange warmth filled her chest, one that had nothing to do with the drink she had earlier or the fluffy scarf wrapped around her. Her heart fluttered as she replayed her interactions with the mysterious barista in her head. She couldn't help but wonder how Shadowheart's beautiful face would look with a genuine smile on it.
Clara found herself already looking forward to the next day and her next venture back into The Last Brew.