Mo had been cryptic as hell on the phone, and that wasn’t like her. She usually laid things out straight, with no room for guessing games. But tonight? There was a strain in her voice. Unease twists in my gut, a feeling I can’t shake no matter how many times I try to tell myself it’s nothing.

I don’t like not knowing what we’re walking into.

Bennett shifts in the passenger seat, his elbow propped against the door, fingers tapping out an erratic rhythm against his knee. He’s always moving like his body is too restless to sit still. Or maybe, like me, he’s trying to shake the unease off.

He’s the first one to break the silence. “What made you want to open a cafe?”

I keep my eyes on the road, the question catching me off guard.

“It wasn’t really about want,” I say, gripping the wheel a little tighter. “It was my mom’s cafe. Before she passed, it was hers. She named it Bear and Brew for her little teddy bear, Theodore. I think that’s why Aunt Aubrey still calls me Teddy, to help keep my mom alive.”

Bennett doesn’t say anything right away, and for a second, I think maybe he’s going to drop it. But then—

“So, you kept it going?” His voice is quieter now, less like he’s just making conversation and more like he wants to know.

“Aubrey took over after she died, she held the reins for me until I turned 18 so I could take over, but yeah.” I exhale, rolling my shoulders, trying to shake the weight settling there. “She built it from the ground up. Every corner of that place—every recipe, every little detail—was hers. Walking away wasn’t an option. Keeping it running… It’s how I stay close to her.”

I flick a glance at him. He’s watching me, brow furrowed just slightly like he’s piecing clues together.

“She loved baking,” I add, surprising myself. I don’t talk about my mom much. “I grew up watching her in the kitchen. It wasn’t just food to her—it was love. The way she took care of people, the way she showed up for them. When I’m back there, mixing dough or pulling the trays out of the oven… it’s like she’s still with me.”

The words settle between us, filling the space that’s been so thick with silence. Bennett doesn’t press, doesn’t offer some empty apology, or try to smooth it over. He just nods, slow and thoughtful, like he gets it.

After a beat, he huffs out a quiet laugh. “That explains why your truck smells like coffee and sugar.”

It’s a small thing, but it cuts through the tension just enough. I snort, shaking my head. “Occupational hazard.”

Bennett nods like that makes sense. “Could be worse.”