Page 6 of Protector of Talon Mountain

The only building on the street that doesn’t look scared to exist. The Hollow Hearth.

Hand-painted sign weathered but not peeling. Dark cedar siding. Green trim. Flower boxes. No neon. No branding. Just a wooden door, a bell above it, curtains that look stitched by hand.

The sidewalk has been swept. The steps have been salted. Someone gives a damn.

It doesn’t fit the rest of the town, and that makes it stand out. And anything that stands out is either a problem, or it’s being protected.

I stop across the street and watch. The door cracks open just enough to release a breath of warm air—cinnamon and coffee. I hear laughter. Female. Real.

That alone makes it different from everything else I’ve seen since landing.

My boots move before my brain signs off. I cross the street without looking, one hand in my pocket, the other near the Glock under my coat. Not fear—just muscle memory.

The bell above the door gives a soft jingle as I step in. The smell hits harder inside—brown sugar, vanilla, something earthy. Like someone baked something full of memory and left it out to cool.

Voices go quiet. Eyes follow me. Three customers near the window. A teenager behind the counter trying not to be seen. She looks at me like she recognizes something in me.

Hell if I know what. But I don’t look away.

The place is warm—not just from the kitchen. The warmth is in the walls, the floor, the care someone put into making it feel lived in. Not polished, not modern, but nothing broken either.

Mismatched antique chairs crowd warm wooden tables. Shelves stacked with spice jars, little potted herbs, cookbooks worn thin. Amber lights hang low from industrial fixtures. The floor creaks in a way that says it remembers every step.

The place has a heartbeat.

Then I see her.

She’s wiping down a table near the back. Half-turned. Hair twisted into a messy knot, loose strands brushing her neck. Flannel shirt, dark jeans. Flour dust on her forearms. Sleeves rolled to the elbows. No jewelry. No nonsense.

She turns just enough for me to catch her face—soft lines, wary eyes, lips tight with determination. She moves like she knows she’s being watched, but refuses to shrink from it.

Then her eyes meet mine. Wary, not weak.

And something clicks. Right behind the ribs. I've felt it once, maybe twice before—but never like this. Not this fast. Not this sharp. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smile either. Just stands straighter and tosses the rag in the bus bin with one clean motion.

“You looking for coffee?” she asks. Voice isn’t sweet—it’s smooth, edged, the kind that keeps line cooks in line and drunk men in check.

I walk up to the counter. My boots hit the floor heavily.

“Black. No sugar, and give me one of those blueberry muffins.”

She nods and moves without wasting a second. Calm. Efficient. But her shoulders lift just a little too high when she turns. A tell.

She pours the coffee into a plain white mug and puts the muffin in a paper sleeve. No foam art, no whipped cream, no bullshit. Just heat and truth. Slides both across the counter. Her fingers brush the ceramic.

“Four fifty.”

I pull a ten from my coat and lay it down. She moves toward the register, but her eyes flick up first. “Keep it.”

I’m still watching her. Not staring. Reading.

There it is again. A slight twitch in her right hand. Not fear, exactly. More like readiness. Like she’s learned to brace for things that never should’ve happened.

I’ve seen that before, and I hate it.

“Anything else?” she asks, already stepping away.

I take a sip. Strong. Real. No bitterness in the brew—just in the air.

---