Page 4 of The Case of the Missing Love Stone

“You have no idea.” Her gaze drops. “After what happened the first time, I don’t think I have it in me.”

Silence settles briefly between us, while steam hisses from the espresso machine behind the counter.

“Junie.”

Her hands pause against the paper bag.

“I never wanted you to get hurt.”

She exhales and meets my eyes. “I know.”

Her smile turns small at the edges.

Before I can find an answer that will not sting, the kitchen door swings open.

“There you are,” Honeysuckle announces.

Honey looks exactly like her name sounds: sun-kissed skin, golden-brown eyes, a sunflower-print apron, big blonde curls, and enough energy to keep downtown running through hurricane season.

She points a wooden spoon at me. “You’re trying the new festival coffee.”

“Are you threatening me with treats?”

“I put lavender cold foam on it.”

“You know I don’t like lavender.”

Ignoring my concern, Honey catches my wrist and pulls me toward the café counter. Her grip is warm and automatic, the unselfconscious touch of an omega who has never needed to debate whether she is allowed to reach for the people she loves.

My omega instincts respond before I can stop them. The depleted hum beneath my skin eases. My breathing deepens, and a small, embarrassing urge rises to turn my wrist beneath her palm and keep the contact longer.

Honey releases me to grab the drink, and my body screams at the loss.

Junie shakes her head while wiping down the espresso machine. “You made her weird coffee again?”

“It’s called a Dreamy Lavender Latte,” Honey says. “That is sweetheart seasonal artistry.”

“It sounds fake.”

Honey shoves the iced drink into my hands.

The first sip brings rich espresso, followed by a warm spice that softens the lavender into subtle magic. This drink feels like the comfort of fresh sheets, open windows, and the joy of new beginnings.

Honey has the gift of taste and has always had a way of baking her mood into things. Once, after making cookies while mooning over an alpha, half the bridge club spent the afternoon confessing old crushes and daring each other into the fountain.

I narrow my eyes at her. “I hate that this is good.”

She smiles, her cheeks rounding. “You hate joy.”

“I’m cautious around joy. There’s a difference.”

Honey laughs and leans against the counter beside me.

Between her shoulder against mine and Junie moving nearby, the tightness in my chest loosens enough for a full breath. Whether they know it or not, Honey, Junie, and my weekly visits to their family’s bakery serve as a life raft. It’s the closest thing I have to pack frequency, and I ration it carefully. I also sleep beneath three quilts in summer and spend every heat alone with suppressants, locked doors, and enough towels to make the experience feel clinical. My body still hasn’t accepted the arrangement. I’ve only learned that complaining about chronic deprivation changes nothing.

The bell above the bakery door jingles.

Honey’s laugh fades.