Page 8 of He Sees You When You’re Sleeping

Chapter Four

Jack

Pete’s Cafe isn’t the type of place I’d normally visit. Not until Chloe that is. I’ve always been the type of guy who would make my coffee at home and avoid the overpriced, pretentious coffee shops in my neighborhood that seemed to be popping up on every corner. Even if I do pass it every day on my way to the fire station.

Jesus I’m beginning to sound like my grandpop, god rest his soul.

But Chloe visited this location every Tuesday without fail, often Wednesday, and even Fridays on occasion when she’d go to the Moth to the Flame office. So here I am. The guy who has spent a majority of his adult life as a loner unless you count work, suddenly daydreaming about holding hands over steaming mugs of coffee.

I even caught myself defending Pete’s to my fire captain the other day when I entered with the telltale cup that proved I overspent on something waiting for me in a pot at the station. “It’s not just about the coffee,” I found myself saying. “It’s about the experience, the atmosphere.”

As I push open the heavy wooden door, the rich aroma of freshly ground beans greets me. The cafe is bustling with the morning crowd, a mix of suited professionals and artsy types hunched over their laptops.

I scan the room, my heart rate quickening as I search for Chloe’s familiar face. She’s already in line, and no one is behind her. Not until I take the spot, that is.

She doesn’t know I’m here.

She never does.

But I am. I always am.

I take my place behind her, close enough to catch a whiff of her jasmine perfume. My palms are sweaty, and I wipe them on my pants, rehearsing the words I’ve practiced a hundred times in my head.

“Hey there,” I want to say. “Fancy seeing you here.” But the words catch in my throat. Thank God because who the hell says the word “fancy”?

I’ve memorized her order by now. A large soy latte with an extra shot of espresso and a sprinkle of cinnamon on top. She’ll treat herself to one of Pete’s famous blueberry scones which have now become a favorite of mine as well. Those little fuckers are addictive.

Today, she’s all business, tapping away at her phone as she waits her turn. It’s out of her normal, however. She’s not one of those girls who live on their phones twenty-four-seven. Shocking considering what she does for a living. But something I’ve always liked about Chloe is she seems to be an observer—like me. She watches people—like me.

Although she doesn’t stand outside someone’s windows in the dark—like me.

“Next!” calls the barista, and Chloe steps up to place her order.

I listen intently, hoping to catch some detail I might have missed, some clue to who she really is.

“Large soy latte, extra shot, cinnamon on top,” she says, her voice melodic and confident. “And... you know what? I’ll take a blueberry scone too. It’s been a long week.”

I smile to myself. Even her small indulgences are endearing.

As she moves to the side to wait for her order, I step up to the counter. The barista, a young guy with thick-rimmed glasses and an ironic mustache, raises an eyebrow at me.

“Let me guess,” he says with a knowing smirk. “Large black coffee?”

I clear my throat, suddenly aware of how transparent I’ve become. “Actually,” I say, surprising myself, “I’ll have what she’s having.”

The barista’s eyebrows shoot up, but he shrugs and punches in the order. I fumble with my wallet, acutely aware of Chloe standing just a few feet away. As I wait for my change, I steal a glance at her. She’s leaning against the counter, still absorbed in her phone, a slight frown creasing her forehead.

I want to ask her what’s wrong, to be the one to smooth away that worry line. But I’m just another stranger in a coffee shop, not the confidant I long to be.

“Order for Chloe!” the barista calls out, and she steps forward to claim her drink and scone. As she turns to leave, our eyes meet for a brief moment. My heart skips a beat as she flashes a polite smile, the kind you give to someone you pass on the street. It’s nothing special, but to me, it’s everything.

But then she pauses, studies me for a moment, and realization dawns on her facial expression. “Hey, I know you. You’re the man who helped my neighbor. Jack, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” I stammer, caught off guard by her recognition. “That’s me.”

“I didn’t know you came here.”

My pits begin to sweat, and my mouth goes dry. “Yeah... I work at the station down the street.”

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