Part I – Cinnamon & Chaos

I didn’t expect to fall in love that summer. I didn’t expect him. He was barely older than a boy — wild, hungry, radiant with the kind of energy I thought I’d buried. I just wanted quiet. I just wanted control.

But then he walked into my café.

The first time I saw him, he stood at the counter like he owned the place. Tall, golden, messy hair, and the kind of slouch that screamed chaos. I was behind the espresso machine — apron on, hair up, pretending not to be tired. He leaned forward and smiled.

“Double shot Americano. Extra hot. Just like you.”

I raised an eyebrow. Not because I was shocked, but because I liked it. No one had spoken to me like that in years. Not since my ex-husband left. Not since I’d stopped seeing myself as someone worth desiring.

“We don’t serve stale lines,” I replied, coolly.

He grinned. That boyish, beautiful grin. “Then give me something fresh.”

That’s how it began.

He came every day after that. Sat in the same seat by the window. Ordered the same drink. He stared, unashamed, like I was art. And for the first time in a long time, I started dressing with intention again — red lips, silk blouses, tighter jeans.

He made me remember I was a woman.

Part II – Late Nights & Locked Doors

One rainy afternoon, I asked him to help me close early. Something about the way the storm rolled through the windows made the café feel private. Sacred. He followed me into the back kitchen, and I swear I felt the tension in the air spark.

“Want me to sweep?” he asked, eyes on my hips.

“Start with the floor,” I murmured. “Then maybe me.”

He kissed me with no hesitation. Pressed me against the counter, warm hands sliding beneath my blouse. My breath hitched when his fingers touched bare skin. I moaned into his mouth, needing more, needing everything.

I let him strip me right there. I let him kneel in front of me, tasting me like he’d been starved. And when I wrapped my legs around him, when I pulled him inside me — raw, deep, claiming every inch — I felt alive.

We didn’t stop. Not that night. Not the next. Not for weeks.

He fucked me like I was his. Like he wanted to live inside my body. He made me feel twenty again. We did it in the café, on the balcony, in the back of his car. It was wild, reckless, and so damn good.

I never asked for his last name.

I didn’t want to make it real. I wanted to stay in the dream.

Part III – A Body Remembers

One morning, I woke up alone. No text. No goodbye. Just empty sheets and silence. I waited. A day. A week. Nothing.

Then I started throwing up.

The test was positive. I was 38, divorced, and about to be a single mother.

I cried for two days. Then I put on my lipstick, opened my café, and got to work.

Pregnancy changed me. My body became soft again, but stronger. My breasts fuller, my hips wider, my skin radiant. Every morning I touched my belly and whispered to it.

“I’m not alone.”

I named my son Luca. He had his father's golden hair. His fire. His stare.

I never told anyone who the father was. Some secrets, I kept pressed in the folds of my skin.

Years passed. I raised Luca alone. I worked hard, built my brand, expanded the café. And every once in a while, I’d feel that ache return — that emptiness. That craving.

Part IV – When Ghosts Walk In

Then one day, years later, he walked back into the café.

Same smirk. Same messy hair. But older now. And when he saw me, his eyes widened.

“You look…”

“Don’t say it,” I cut in.

He smiled. “I missed you.”

I looked at him. Long. Hard. I wanted to scream. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to take him into the back and relive it all.

But I just said, “Your usual?”

He nodded.

I made him the Americano. Placed it on the counter. Then, quietly, I asked, “You want to meet your son?”

His hand froze. The cup trembled.

I watched him. Calm, composed, powerful.

“I didn’t come back for coffee,” he said.

“I didn’t keep your number,” I replied. “But I kept something else.”

He looked at me like he finally understood what he’d done. What he’d missed.

I didn’t forgive him. Not immediately. But that night, when he held Luca for the first time… I saw something in his face I hadn’t seen before.

Maybe love. Maybe regret. Maybe both.

Part V – Back into the Heat

He came by more often. Sometimes for coffee. Sometimes, just to sit with Luca. And slowly, something between us thawed.

He offered to help around the café again. I let him.

One night, we stayed late, just like before. The espresso machine hissed. The streetlights buzzed. The air was full of memory.

“I missed your mouth,” he whispered.

I didn’t stop him.

He kissed me like no time had passed. Like we had just pressed pause. This time, it was slower. Deeper. Filthy, but full of emotion. He fucked me against the wall, on my office chair, on the café floor — and I let him come inside me again.

I wanted to feel filled. Again.

To be continued…