Lani’s behind the counter, barely holding herself together. She’s moving slower than usual – no bounce, no edge, just small, tired movements like she’s wading through fog. Her hair is scraped into a rough twist on top of her head, barely held together by a single black claw clip. Strands of damp blonde stick to her cheeks. The hoodie she’s wearing is huge on her. Not oversized by style – oversized because it’s not hers. I know it. I know the frayed cuffs, the stretched out neckline, the small rip at the hem near the pocket. My stomach twists.
She turns away to pour milk into a jug, and I watch as her hand trembles. Just slightly. Just enough to catch. When shesets the jug down, she winces like it hurts to lift her arm. Her cheeks are pale. Lips dry. The flush high on her cheekbones doesn’t look like blush – it looks like fever.
She’s sick.
Not hungover, not overtired.Unwell.
And still she’s here, working a shift like it’s any other Tuesday.
I don’t go to the counter straight away. Just watch for a few minutes, long enough to see her drop a cup and curse under her breath, long enough to hear a customer complain about cold coffee and watch her blink, apologise, and remake it without argument. Her hands shake the entire time.
Eventually, I step forward, clearing my throat gently so I don’t startle her too badly. She turns, and I can see the flicker of something like panic in her eyes before she registers me.
“Finn,” she says, her voice hoarse. Brittle. Not the usual dry amusement or wary edge. Just empty.
“Didn’t think I’d catch you here,” I say quietly, trying to keep it light.
She shifts on her feet, reaching automatically for a takeaway cup. “Covering for Pete. He’s got some chest infection thing.”
Her hand slips on the lid. I see it. She fumbles, catches it, keeps going like nothing happened.
I don’t ask what she’s doing here if she’s clearly unwell. I know the answer already. She won’t say it, but it’s there in the hollowness of her eyes –no one else to help her, and she doesn’t trust anyone to try.
“You alright?” I ask.
She flinches, just barely. Like I’ve caught her somewhere she didn’t expect me to be, then pastes on something that might’ve been a smile if I hadn’t seen how thin it was. “Fine.”
“You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“Thanks.”
I don’t push. Not here. Not when she’s still holding herself together by a thread. I take the coffee, pay in cash, and retreat to the corner table by the window. I scroll on my phone, mostly just muscle memory, but my eyes never stop tracking her. The slump of her shoulders. The way she leans on the counter like she needs it to stay upright. How she disappears into the back room for too long between orders, then returns red-faced and blinking like she might’ve cried.
I stay for two hours.
It’s only when the shift ends and she ducks out of the staff door with her hood pulled low to cover her face that I move again, slipping out behind her into the rain.
She doesn’t notice me until I catch up halfway up the hill.
“Here,” I say, shrugging out of my jacket and swinging it around her shoulders before she can argue.
She startles. Stumbles. “What—Finn, no, you’ll?—”
“You’re soaked.”
“I’malwayssoaked,” she snaps, but it’s half-hearted. There’s no fire in it. Just resignation.
“Not like this,” I murmur.
She clutches the jacket tighter around her, but she doesn’t push it off. Still, there’s a flicker of something in her expression – like it’s not quite what she was braced for.
That alone tells me more than words ever could.
The climb to the cottage is silent. Her footsteps drag. Twice she stumbles. I pretend not to notice, just slow my own pace to match hers. She won’t ask for help. I get the impression she’s the sort that never does. So I offer it quietly, wordlessly, the way she might actually accept.
When we reach the door, she fumbles the key twice before I gently take it from her and slide it into the lock myself.
“Thanks,” she whispers.