Stevie Florette

Ink & Foam

The sign swings above the door, hand-lettered in swirling script. Below it, chalkboard poetry: Espresso thyself, or remain in bitter silence.

Cute. And even though I literally just had a cup of coffee, I find myself entering the shop, where at least I’ll encounter caffeine-fueled early morning energy if nothing else.

Inside, the air is warm and fragrant with pumpkin spice, vanilla, and fresh-ground coffee. Wood beams, low lighting, secondhand furniture arranged like someone’s living room. There’s a record playing softly in the background. Vinyl. Actual crackling vinyl. Joni Mitchell. Perfect for a chilly fall morning. The place is charming in a self-aware, art-student kind of way. A woman of about thirty, glasses and her hair in a messy bun, mans the cash register while a young Hispanic guy cleans up a spill on a nearby table.

And then I see him.

I don’t notice him at first amid the clang and clatter of the morning rush. He’s behind the counter, back turned, bent slightly as he wipes down the espresso machine. His shirt clings to a lean frame, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing smooth forearms and a faint tattoo I can’t quite make out. Dark curls fall just over his ears, a few strands escaping the headband he’s wearing.

Even from the back, he’s magnetic. Confident. Loose. The kind of body language that makes people stop mid-sentence.

When he turns around, I actually flinch. He’s… beautiful. Movie-star beautiful, but real. A crooked grin, high cheekbones, thick lashes over eyes that practically gleam. There’s something hypnotic in the way he moves, like he’s entirely comfortable being watched.

God, I know that look. I’ve been spotting it from across rooms my whole life. Always carefully. Secretly. While holding Cara’s hand, or nodding at a friend’s story, or picking up groceries. It’s a trick I learned early: a two-second sweep, a casual flick of the eye, never long enough to be caught.

Now I can’t look away.

“Morning,” he says, voice rich and playful. “You lost, Professor?”

I blink. “Sorry?”

“Just pegged you for a teacher. You’ve got the tweed-jacket look. Just need a stack of worn books and a pair of tortured eyes. Though…” His gaze lingers. “Although you might already have the eyes.”

I laugh. A little too loudly. “Uh. First time here.”

“No kidding. I’d remember you,” he says, voice like melted butter with a little bourbon in it.

“Yeah, I don’t usually…” but my voice trails off, suddenly aware of my posture, the stiffness in my shoulders, the way I probably look like someone’s dad who wandered in looking for directions.

He tilts his head, as if he’s reading me. Not judging—just noticing.

“What can I get you, Professor?”

“Just black coffee.”

He mock-gasps. “Straight-up? No oat milk, no lavender syrup, no ironic cold foam? I’m not even sure that’s legal here.”

I shake my head. “I guess I’m boring.”

He leans in slightly, voice dropping half an octave. “Or maybe you just know exactly what you want.” He punctuated the comment with a wink.

My stomach flips.

“Can I get your name?” he says, marker at the ready to label my cup.

“Rhett.”

He grins. “As in Gone With the Wind?”

“I’ve heard that one a few times.”

“Well, I’m Sheridan. As in… just Sheridan. I used to say as in Ann Sheridan, but nobody remembers her.”

“They Drive by Night, 1940. Great movie.”

“Oh man, don’t tell me I’ve met a fellow Ann Sheridan fanboy?”

“More of an Ida Lupino, guy, actually…”

“That figures. She was always the smart one.”

He moves like someone who knows he’s being watched and likes it. There’s nothing forced or performative—just comfort, confidence, heat. He pours the coffee with one hand, slides the cup toward me with the other. His fingers brush mine.

“First one’s on the house,” he says, cracking that killer smile again. “Welcome to the neighborhood, handsome.”

The word hits me like a body check. Handsome. Not in passing. Not jokingly. Not the way Cara says it when I’m in a suit. Like he meant it.

I mutter something resembling thanks and head for the door, heart pounding like I’ve just stolen something. Outside, I stand on the sidewalk with the cup in my hand, unsure whether to drink it, toss it, or pour it over my head.

Across the street, a city bus hisses to a stop. Somewhere far away, a siren wails. The coffee warms my hands but not the chill creeping up my spine. I turn back toward the shop just in time to see Sheridan watching me through the window.

Sheridan.

Of course his name is Sheridan.

He doesn’t look away when our eyes meet. He just smiles. His beautiful eyes fixed on me like he sees something in me that I don’t even see in myself.

That night, I lie in bed next to Cara. She’s reading, her face lit blue by her tablet. I pretend to sleep.

My mind is a slideshow of that coffee shop—the steam, the tattoo on his arm, the way he said my name. And damn, if my cock doesn’t start to twitch at the memory.

“Welcome to the neighborhood, handsome.”

The words echo, long after the house goes quiet that night.

And me?

I lie next to a woman I don’t want, aching for a man I can’t have, knowing exactly who I am. And knowing, just as clearly, that I’ve built a life around pretending not to.