Let's reach 250 Power Stones for an extra chapter
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-Jessica-
I dart behind the counter at The Daily Grind, steam hissing like an angry cat as the espresso machine jams mid-rush. Orders stack up—lattes, cappuccinos, black coffees for the suits glaring at their watches. My hands shake a little pulling shots, heart pounding from the chaos, and I fumble the tamper. Great, Jessica, make it look like you're drowning already.
Ethan slides in right behind me, close enough his warmth cuts through the milk froth's chill. "Got it," he murmurs, his fingers brushing mine over the valve. A quick twist, and hot water surges smooth again. That touch lingers—electric, stupidly warm, sending my pulse skittering like it always does around him.
He steps back with that easy grin, slapping my palm in a high-five. "Teamwork like that keeps us ahead of the line, right?"
"Yeah... thanks," I manage, voice soft, nodding too fast. Heat creeps up my neck, but I force a smile, wiping the counter like nothing happened. He laughs it off, oblivious, already calling the next order. God, why does he have to smell like fresh grounds and that cologne that sticks in my head?
As the rush thins, I steal a glance while steaming milk. He's been my rock since the hospital—checking in, paying bills, dragging me back to life when everything shattered. That unwavering support? It fans this crush I've nursed forever, quiet and hopeless. But his high-fives, his casual teases? They scream friend-zone. Reliable Jessica, the sidekick who doesn't glitch the vibe. I push the spark down deep, pour the foam into a heart nobody sees, and hand off the next drink. One day at a time. Or whatever.
The door chimes, cutting through the grinder's whine, and heads turn like clockwork. Luke Cage fills the frame, all six-foot-something of solid muscle wrapped in a hoodie and jeans that look like they've seen real miles. He nods at Olivia behind the register, then locks eyes with me at the espresso bar, that easy smile cracking his strong jaw. "Morning, Jessica. Black coffee, large. Keep it strong."
I grab the mug quick, hands steadier now than five minutes ago, pouring from the fresh pot without spilling a drop. Steam curls up, bitter and bold, hitting my nose as I slide it across the counter. "Here you go. Hot as usual."
He wraps those massive fingers around it, careful not to crush the ceramic, and takes a slow sip right there. Dark eyes meet mine over the rim. "Perfect. Strong enough to face the day, no bitterness overwhelming it. You got a gift for this." He pauses, leaning one elbow on the counter despite the line shuffling behind him—suits tapping feet, phones buzzing. "Rush treating you alright today? Place looks like a battlefield."
Heat prickles my cheeks, but his tone pulls words out easy, like he's got nowhere else to be. No rush, no show. Just real. "Yeah, it's... manageable. Ethan and I tag-teamed the machine earlier—saved us from total meltdown. You come in at the best times, though. Breaks up the chaos."
Luke chuckles low, a rumble that vibrates the air between us, warm without trying. "Smart teamwork. Harlem's full of battles; this one's just caffeine-fueled. Keep holding the line." He nods once, appreciative, like he means it deep, then straightens up. Folks part for him natural as water around rock, and he's out the door, coffee steaming in his grip.
I stare at the empty spot a second too long, pulse fluttering odd in my chest—steady, not the frantic skip Ethan sparks with his grins and brushes. Luke's different. Grounded rock in the shop's whirlwind chatter and clatter. Safe, somehow. I shake it off, call the next order, but that quiet intrigue lingers, soft contrast to the frenzy humming around me. Weird. Nice weird.
As the rush slows, I wipe the counter, steam's hiss fading to quiet drips. Ethan jokes with the last customer, his easy laugh bouncing off the tiles. I replay Luke's warm smile as he exits, that steady nod pulling at something new—quiet strength seeing me clear.
Ethan's my rock, constant through the crash. Reliable. Safe. But chasing him feels like endless sidekick status. Luke? Attentive without flash, intriguing. Mutual maybe?
Olivia's voice crackles over the intercom, sharp against the shop's chatter. "Jessica, back alley—new stock bags from the pallet. Ethan's got the front."
I nod to nobody, untie my apron, and push through the stockroom door into the alley's stale heat. Sun beats off the brick walls, turning the air thick with diesel and trash. The pallet squats heavy by the truck, fifty-pound sacks of beans stacked like they dare me. I hoist the first one onto my shoulder—grunting under the weight that used to buckle my knees—and shuffle toward the door.
A scruffy guy explodes from behind the truck, wild-eyed, arms crammed with crates of our premium roasts. "Outta my way, kid!" he snarls, shoving hard into my chest. His shoulder rams me back against rough brick. I yelp, sharp pain blooming where it should bruise deep.
He swings wild—a haymaker glancing my shoulder with a meaty thud. It barely rocks me. No stagger, no give. My body stays planted, solid as concrete. Instinct kicks in; I snatch his arm mid-follow-through. "Hey—stop!"
"What the—let go!" He yanks, face twisting red, veins bulging. I twist harder without thinking, superhuman grip clamping like a vice. He spins off-balance, sprawling face-first across pavement. Crates tumble, shattering open—beans scatter like dark hail. He yelps, scrambling up on elbows, eyes bugging at my handprint on his filthy jacket.
"You crazy bitch! Get off me!" Spit flies as he lunges again, fist cocked.
Panic surges, but my arm moves on its own. I drive my palm forward—straight into his jaw with a crack that echoes off the walls. His head snaps back. Eyes roll white. He crumples limp, out cold amid the spilled coffee.
I release him fast, panting, hands steady as I stare down. No shake. No ache. Just... power humming under my skin. The alley spins empty—truck idling, distant horns blaring. What the hell?
Sirens wail closer, cutting through the alley's thick air like knives. Two cops burst around the corner, guns drawn, freezing when they spot the thief sprawled limp amid scattered beans. One kneels quick, checks his pulse, then cuffs his wrists. "You okay, miss? This guy's out cold—what happened here?"
I blink hard, heart slamming against my ribs, hands hovering like they don't belong to me. "I... he shoved me. I just pushed back. That's it." My voice cracks soft, barely above the truck's idling rumble. Did I really drop him like that? No way.
The taller cop nods, hauling the thief up by his collar. "Self-defense, clear as day. Good work—you probably saved the shop a fortune. We'll take it from here." They drag him toward their cruiser, radio crackling with codes I don't catch.
Alone now, alley quiet except distant traffic hum, I spot a rusted pipe amid the mess—discarded, thick as my wrist. Curiosity pulls me; I snatch it up, grip tightening without effort. Metal groans soft under my fingers. I bend it double, smooth as foil, no strain, no burn. What the hell am I now?
***
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