Page 159 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
The grinder’s burr plates sing their familiar song, beans falling like rain into the portafilter as I dose and tamp with meditative focus.
Anything to keep my hands busy. Anything to stop them from shaking.
“Double espresso, extra shot,” I announce, sliding the cup across to Jenna, who sits at the counter with her bandaged hand cradled against her chest.
“Thanks, love.” Her voice carries gratitude that goes deeper than caffeine appreciation.
We’re all here for the same reason—because sitting alone in empty apartments while our men hunt monsters feels impossible. Because sometimes the only way to survive waiting is to do it together.
The café feels different at this hour, stripped of its daytime energy and bustling crowd. Soft lighting creates pools of warmth while shadows gather in corners, transforming familiar space into something more intimate.
More like home.
More like a sanctuary.
Rebel occupies the corner booth, her face still bearing the healing stitches that track from temple to jaw like a roadmap of Malfor’s cruelty. Her arm rests in a sling while bound ribs limit her breathing to careful, measured draws. Her eyes hold fierce determination that speaks to survival instincts stronger than any injury.
“How are you feeling?” Mia asks, settling beside her.
“Like I got hit by a truck,” Rebel admits with honesty that costs her. “But alive. Breathing. Ready to see that bastard get what he deserves.”
Stitch moves slowly to the window seat, back still bearing the marks of Malfor’s cane and whip beneath loose clothing designed to hide healing wounds. Each step speaks to pain carefully managed but not conquered.
“Tea for you,” Sophia says softly, bringing a steaming mug that smells of chamomile and honey. “Supposed to help with healing.”
“Everything helps with healing,” Stitch replies, accepting the cup with hands that tremble slightly. “Time. Tea. Friends.”
Sophia’s smile holds understanding that comes from experience. She knows what it means to survive Malfor’s attention, to carry scars that are both visible and hidden.
“How are Luke and Zephyr?” I ask, remembering the children who’ve already seen too much violence in their young lives.
“Violet’s watching them,” Sophia explains. “Thought it was better they sleep in familiar beds rather than worry about things they can’t understand.”
The espresso machine releases another perfect shot, dark liquid flowing like silk into waiting cups. I craft drinks with extra care tonight—perfect foam art, precise temperatures, flavor profiles that speak to love made manifest through caffeinated perfection.
“Cortado for the lady with excellent taste,” I announce, sliding the cup toward Malia.
She accepts it with a smile that doesn’t quite hide the lingering effects of her concussion—slightly unfocused eyes, careful movements that speak to her equilibrium still recovering from trauma. But she’s here, present, contributing her warmth to our collective vigil.
“This is probably the best coffee I’ve ever tasted,” she says after her first sip. “You’ve outdone yourself, Ally.”
“Thanks.” I smile, watching her savor the drink with appreciation that makes the late-night effort worthwhile. “I had a good teacher, and the machine’s finally cooperating.”
“Hey.” Jenna reaches over with her good hand and squeezes Malia’s. “You took a beating that would have killed most people. A little confusion is nothing compared to being alive.”
The truth of it settles over our group with uneasy acceptance. We’re all alive, all here, all healing despite everything Malfortried to take from us. Broken but not beaten, scarred but not destroyed.
The café door chimes softly as a late-night security guard does his rounds, checking that we’re safe in our sanctuary. The building feels more secure knowing Guardian personnel are keeping watch while we wait for news.
“Does anyone know when they might be back?” I sip from my cup and don’t voice the worry in my head. I’m afraid that if I speak my fears, one or all of them won’t make it back.
“They’re trained for this.” Stitch’s voice carries wisdom earned through surviving horrors that would break lesser people. “They know what they’re doing. And they have something worth coming home to.”
Our men are indeed stubborn bastards.
“Speaking of devotion,” Sophia observes, studying my face with the sharp attention of someone who’s learned to read subtle signs, “when’s the last time you ate something that wasn’t pure caffeine?”
The question forces me to think, searching for meals that blur together in an anxiety-fueled haze of grief and worry.
