The heroine in the story is tall and slender with jet-black hair and green eyes.

The hero is tall, strongly built, and a carpenter.

A little on the nose, buddy.

I read on:

…I couldn’t make coffee for shit. This is from the heroine’s POV. I worked early and stopped for coffee on the way, and so rarely make my own coffee. On the weekends, my husband used to make it for me, but now, it was just me. And I couldn’t and wouldn’t make it for myself. It’s not like making coffee was hard or complicated. It was the principle of the thing, really.

I think about my pour-over inside. I wonder if she’s had coffee, yet. If she’s awake. A cup of fresh coffee would be a nice way to introduce yourself as a neighbor.

I’m considering this when I hear her front door open. She’s wrapped in a blanket. Sits in the rocking chair, but with her knees under her. I’m standing up, at this point, thinking. I’ve got my mug in my hands, having just refilled it, so it’s steaming.

She glances this way—it’s far enough I can’t really make out her exact expression, but I can feel her longing for coffee from here.

I head back inside and make a fresh batch. I carry the pour-over in one hand and my mug in the other. Head over across the grass between the cabins. I can feel her tensing as I approach. I stop at the base of her steps.

“Uh, hi.” I clear my throat. “Wondered if you might like some coffee.”

Her eyes are green, a deep, dark shade of jade. They search me. “I…yeah, actually, that would be amazing.” She seems embarrassed. “I don’t…I have stuff to make coffee but I…every time I make coffee, it tastes like dirt.”

I lift the Chemex. “Well, grab yourself a mug.” I set a foot on the lower step. “Mind if I come up?”

She hesitated. “I…yeah, sure. Yes. Please. I’ll be right back.”

Rising, she floats inside with the blanket trailing behind her like a superhero cape. Returns momentarily with a big ceramic mug, intentionally lopsided to mold against the hands. She offers me the mug, giving me something that might be the wayward ghost of a smile—tiny, faint, hesitant.

I hold the reusable copper filter in place and fill her up. I then dig in the pocket of my flannel shirt for packets of stevia and a spoon; in the story, she fixed her coffee black, with a little natural sweetener.

She takes the packet and spoon with a quizzical grin. “Thanks?” A question, by the tone of her voice. As in, how do you know how I like my coffee?

I shrug. “I drink mine black,” I say. “I had sweetener but not milk or cream. So.”