Page 16 of Steeped In Problems

“Sorry,” Mark said, “didn’t mean to get in the way.” He edged back a step, but not enough to let Kristy breathe easy.

Tanner just stared, flat and unblinking, until Mark gave a little laugh and shook his head. “Didn’t realize you had a bodyguard,” he said to Kristy, this time under his breath.

“Just good management,” Tanner replied, voice cool. He took the baked good and placed it in a to-go sleeve. “Here you go. One lemon loaf to go. On the house.”

Mark took it, but not before giving Tanner a once-over. “You know, I always heard ex-cops had trouble adapting to normal life.”

Tanner’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t give Mark the satisfaction of a comeback.

A cold silence hung in the air for a second. Kristy felt her face burn as she watched Mark walk away. She wanted to crawl under Daisy and disappear.

"He always like that?" Tanner asked under his breath, nodding subtly toward where Mark exited the coffee shop.

Kristy sighed, a little puff of defeat escaping her lips. "Worse, usually," she admitted, keeping her voice low. "He has a way of making you feel small."

Tanner's jaw clenched at that, his protective instincts visibly surfacing. "You don't have to talk to him if you don’t want to. If he comes back, I can handle him."

She gave him a grateful look. "Thanks, Tanner." Her voice was sincere, warm with appreciation that went beyond his offer of help. It was clear that having an ally in Tanner made facing Mark less daunting.

“You need a minute?” he questioned with a look of concern.

Kristy shook her head, a short, jerky motion that set her curls bouncing. “I just want to get ready for the lunch crowd,” she said, but her voice came out thin—a thread instead of a rope. She pulled away from the counter, avoiding Tanner’s eyes, and with the practiced efficiency of someone who’d spent years running on adrenaline, she started prepping for midday in earnest.

She was everywhere at once, yanking fresh espresso beans to the grinder, refilling the creamers, and hustling the pastry racks from cooler to display. She wiped down every visible surface—then wiped them again, her hands moving with force bordering on aggression. The scent of disinfectant started to overpower the nutty warmth of roasting beans.

But even as she worked, Mark’s words stuck to her skin like spilled syrup. Every time she caught her reflection in the chrome of an espresso machine or the glass of the bakery case, she imagined him behind her, smirking, waiting for her to screw up. Every step she took echoed with his voice, “Didn’t realizeyou’d traded scrubs for an apron.” The old resentment and humiliation crawled up her throat in equal measure.

She tried to bury herself in the rush. By eleven-thirty, the shop was crammed again. Orders barked out in rapid succession—two iced lattes, caramel drizzle, one oat-milk chai, three shots, no foam—and Kristy became a machine built for service, handing off drinks with a smile, even as her hands shook each time some rude customer snapped their fingers.

Tanner, for his part, kept half an eye on the door but did not hover, a silent, steady presence at the edge of her vision. Whenever the line dipped, he loitered near the sink, rinsing cups that Kristy could’ve sworn were already clean.

The hour ticked by at a crawl, and with every drink order, Kristy felt the sweat build along her hairline, pooling at the base of her neck, slicking her palms until she had to dry them on her apron every few minutes. Even the regulars noticed. Mrs. Espinoza, who always came for a single decaf and half a cinnamon roll at lunch, reached over the counter and gave Kristy’s forearm a gentle squeeze. “You okay, mija? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

Kristy blinked, then gave a watery laugh. “Just busy,” she said and tried to believe it. “Thanks for checking in.”

When the bustle finally ebbed, and she had a moment to breathe, Kristy retreated to the back corner. She put her head in her hands and tried to slow her breathing. She wasn’t about to cry in the middle of the shop, not now, not ever. She counted to ten. Usually, that was all it took for her to stuff an encounter with Mark in a box and padlock it, but this time, it didn’t seem to work.

She didn’t hear Tanner approach. He moved like he was still on a call—quiet, precise, taking up just as much space as he needed. He sat down across from her, not close enough to crowd her but close enough to be a barrier against the rest of the shop.

“Want to talk about it?” he asked.

She kept her head down. “Not really.”

“Fine,” Tanner said. He sat back. Waited. She could feel the weight of his attention, heavy but not pressing.

After a minute, she gave up. “That was Mark,” she said. “My ex.”

Tanner didn’t respond, just waited.

She started talking, and once she started, she couldn’t stop. “We dated for two years. He made me feel like nothing was ever good enough. He didn’t like how much I worked. He said I cared too much. That I should be more like him, just clock in, clock out, don’t get involved. Whenever I’d lose a patient or come home wiped from back-to-back close calls, he’d say I was being dramatic. That I was weak.” She looked up at the hero wall, at all those faces. “He’s the reason I left nursing. Or part of it. I was tired of being told I couldn’t handle it.”

Tanner’s gaze didn’t waver. “From what I can tell, you seem to be able to handle worse than him.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” she admitted.

Tanner was quiet, the way only someone who’s heard confessions before can be. “He’s wrong about you.”

She laughed, but it sounded brittle. “You don’t even know me that well.”

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