Page 8 of Wrecked By Rev

He belongs here anyway. Something about the way he moves—unhurried, certain—makes it seem like he belongs wherever he decides to be.

He took a seat at the counter. End stool, back to the wall, facing the door. I’m not sure if that’s instinct or habit, or if he even knows he’s doing it.

“Coffee,” he says. “Black.”

“Coming right up.”

I pour it. Set it down in front of him. Our fingers brush against the ceramic, and I feel it all the way up my arm.

It’s an act, I remind myself. This is all an act.

“Thanks for coming,” I say quietly.

“Said I would.”

That’s it. That’s all he says. He picks up his coffee and drinks it, and I go back to work, and the café slowly returns to normal around us.

Except it doesn’t. Not really.

Marta catches my eye from her usual spot. Raises one silver eyebrow in a way that says we’re going to talk about this later. I pretend not to notice. Dave from the hardware store walks in, does a double-take at Rev, and suddenly finds something very interesting to study on his phone. The nurses at the corner table are whispering to each other, stealing glances at the counter.

This is what I wanted. People seeing. People talking. Word spreading through the neighborhood like wildfire.

So why does my stomach feel like it’s full of bees?

I feel him watching me the entire shift. Not in a creepy way—not like Niall, whose gaze always felt like fingers crawling over my skin. Rev’s attention is different. Steady. Present. Like he’s making sure I’m okay without needing to ask.

Around eight-thirty, Linda McKenna comes in with her kids. She’s a regular—two boys, both under six, both capable of destroying a stack of pancakes in under ten minutes. She clocks Rev immediately, her eyebrows climbing toward her hairline.

“New friend?” she asks when I bring her the usual.

“Something like that.”

She glances at him again. At the cut, the tattoos, the way he takes up space just by existing.

“Huh,” she says. And then, lower: “Good for you.”

I don’t correct her. That’s the point.

By the end of the breakfast rush, half the neighborhood has seen Rev sitting at my counter. By tomorrow, everyone will know. That’s how it works in this part of town—news travels fast,and a Sons of Ruin biker hanging around the café is definitely news.

When the lull hits, I refill his coffee without him asking.

“You don’t have to stay all morning,” I say. “You probably have work.”

“Danny’s Sportster can wait.”

“Rev—”

“I’m staying until you close.” His eyes meet mine. Dark, steady, unreadable. “That was the deal.”

I want to argue. I don’t. Something about the way he’s looking at me makes the words dry up in my throat.

“Fine,” I managed. “But it feels like I’m paying you in coffee.”

“Works for me.”

He goes back to his cup. I go back to work. And the hours slide by faster than they have in months.