The early February air carried a damp chill; the kind that clung to the fabric of clothes and settled deep into their bones. The streets of Rookpoint weren't exactly bustling, but there was enough movement to keep them from feeling empty. A truck rumbled past, its tires hissing over the damp pavement, and somewhere nearby a flock of gulls was crying out as they wheeled above the harbor. Savannah stood outside the Driftwood Café, her hands curled into the sleeves of her coat as she stared at the painted letters on the glass window – almost as if they might suddenly rearrange themselves into a message; an omen that would tell her whether or not to go in or turn back.

The light inside glowed brightly, spilling out onto the sidewalk and cutting through the gray ambiance of the late morning. Through the window, she could make out the movement of people – customers lingering over coffee, the occasional flash of movement from behind the counter. Camille, almost certainly. And Nat would be here too, which was probably for the best. Savannah had only spoken o Nat once, but she got the vague notion that if anyone could push things in her favor, it would be her.

Savannah exhaled and flexed her fingers, then pressed forward and reached for the handle before she could second-guess herself any further. The door opened easily enough, striking the soft bell above her with a chime, and the warmth rushed to meet her. It carried the rich scents of coffee, steamed milk, chocolate, and something faintly sweet—maybe vanilla? She couldn't be sure.

The café wasn't packed, but there were a few patrons lingering around. Some at the counter, others at smaller tables along the walls. Camille stood near the espresso machine, her back partially turned and her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her dark ponytail swayed as she moved, and even from across the room Savannah could see the rigidity in her posture. Tense, firm, and moving with sharp efficiency as she filled an order.

Savannah let the door swing shut behind her as she took a few steps forward, scanning the space until her gaze landed on Nat. As if on cue, the younger woman spotted Savannah. She was leaning against the counter, her weight balanced on one foot as she lazily stirred a cup of coffee that wasn't hers. Her light brown hair was tied into pigtails, the ends curling slightly, and she wore a loose Driftwood Café sweatshirt over a long-sleeved striped shirt, the sleeves pushed up her arms. At first, she just blinked and grinned, as if Savannah's presence needed an extra second to register. Then a slow, almost mischievous grin crept onto her face.

"Well, well, well. Look what the tide dragged in," Nat drawled, setting the spoon down with a clatter and resting her elbow on the counter. "Back so soon? Missing me already?"

Savannah smiled, walking up to the counter. "Something like that. Actually, I was hoping to talk to Wayne."

Nat's eyebrows lifted. "Pops? What for?"

"Well, I wanted to ask about a job."

Nat's grin returned, brighter this time. "Ooohhh, you're after that sweet life, huh?" she gestured around the café. "Well, you're in luck, because we're in desperate need of a human sacrifice."

Savannah tilted her head, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear as she blinked at Nat. "I'm… hoping that's a joke."

Nat smirked. "I mean, mostly. Working here can be a nightmare, but it's the fun kind, y'know? Like being trapped in a haunted house, but at least there's coffee." She spun toward the espresso machine, grinning from ear to ear. "Yo, Cammy! We've got a job applicant!"

Camille, who had just finished meticulously tamping down a shot of espresso, didn't so much as flinch at the announcement. She slid the portafilter into place, hit the button to start the shot, then finally turned her head just enough to glance at them over her shoulder. Her expression was unreadable, cool, and composed. "Great," she said flatly, before turning back to her work.

Nat grinned. "Wow. Try to contain your excitement."

Camille didn't look up. "I will."

Nat, clearly delighted, leaned back towards Savannah. "See? This is exactly the kind of warm, supportive atmosphere you'll get to experience. Really makes you feel like part of a family."

Savannah exhaled, fighting a smile. "Right. So… is Wayne here or not?"

"Oh, yeah! Hang on a sec," Natalie chirped, straightening and cupping her hands around her mouth. "Pops! Get out here! We've got a business proposition!" she didn't wait for him to respond, disappearing into the back through the swinging door with the kind of urgency that suggested she was on a mission of great importance. The door flapped a few times behind her for a moment before settling, and then… silence.

Savannah glanced back toward the espresso machine, half expecting Camille to resume working without another word. To her mild surprise, Camille was looking at her instead, and was regarding her with quiet scrutiny. Her dark eyes were cool, but they didn't seem unkind or unfriendly—at least not at the moment—more like she was gauging whether or not Savannah was worth the effort of conversation. After a pause that stretched just long enough to be awkward, Camille gave a small, almost reluctant sigh. "You'll have to excuse Natalie," she said, her voice even and composed. "She gets… carried away."

Savannah tilted her head. "She's entertaining."

"That's one word for it." Camille's tone was dry, but there was no real bite to it. She wiped her hands on her apron, as if realizing the interaction was unavoidable, and then extended one to Savannah. "Camille Vaughn."

Savannah hesitated for only a fraction of a second before taking it. Camille's handshake was firm, her grip steady; it was the kind of handshake that belonged to someone who didn't do things halfway.

"Savannah," she said, keeping it simple.

Camille didn't seem to want to ask too many questions, which was good. The last thing Savannah wanted was for this conversation to veer into uncomfortable territory, or to involve Samuel. Especially when he wasn't here to defend himself. Instead, she nodded once, seemingly satisfied with the introduction, before putting one hand on her hip. "You've worked in a café before?"

"No, not a café," Savannah admitted. "But I learn fast."

Camille pressed her lips together and gave a small, thoughtful hum. "It's not difficult once you get a routine down. You just have to keep up and keep a cool head."

Savannah's eyebrow arched. She hadn't expected encouragement or advice from Camille. "I think I can manage," she said.

"Good." Camille studied her for a beat longer, and then seemed to decide she'd had enough social interaction for one day, turning back to the espresso machine. "If Wayne hires you, you'll need to get used to Natalie's… personality. She's harmless, but she doesn't have an off switch."

Savannah smiled. "Noted."

The door to the back swung open again, and Nat reappeared with a smug grin on her face. "Alright, boss man's on his way. Try not to be too charming."

Before Savannah could say anything, a man stepped out of the back room, rubbing a hand over his face as if he'd just woken up and shaken off the last remnants of sleep. He looked like someone who had lived a lot of life in not enough years. He wasn't old—late thirties, at most—but there was a certain weariness about him. A quiet sort of exhaustion that settled in the lines around his eyes and the slight downward curve of his mouth. His dark hair was pulled into a low, somewhat messy ponytail at the base of his skull, and a few errant strands escaped near his temples. He had a solid, broad-shouldered build – the kind that said he'd worked with his hands most of his life. His Driftwood Café t-shirt was wrinkled and faded, bearing the unmistakable evidence of regular wear.

Savannah took stock of him quickly, noting the steady way he looked at her. Not unkind, but sharp enough to know he could see through any bullshit. He had the aura of someone who had dealt with every kind of person imaginable – the kind of man who, despite his exhaustion, still managed to keep this place running.

Nat, of course, wasted no time making introductions.

"Pops," she said, gesturing at Savannah with a flourish. "This is Savannah. She's here to save us from ourselves!"

The man exhaled a quiet sigh, giving Savannah a slower and more detailed once-over, his expression unreadable. "That right?" his voice was low and even, carrying the weight of someone used to being listened to, even when he wasn't trying to command attention.

Savannah straightened her posture, suddenly aware of how closely he was studying her. "I suppose that depends," she said, offering a polite smile. "I heard you might be looking for extra help?"

He didn't answer her right away. He crossed his arms over his chest, drumming his fingers on his bicep as if chewing something over in his mind. Then, with a short nod, he extended a hand towards her. "Wayne Redding," he said. "Owner, unofficial peacekeeper, everyman, and the guy who fixes everything when it breaks."

Savannah took his hand and shook it. Much like the rest of him, his grip was steady. It wasn't intimidating, and he didn't crush her with it, but it had a firmness to it that was hard to ignore. "Savannah Fenn,"

Wayne dropped her hand and gestured toward the back. "Come on. Let's talk."

Savannah followed him back through the swinging door into the back of the café. It was much more cluttered than the front—shelves stacked with extra supplies, a few crates of fresh ingredients shoved against the wall, and a narrow hallway leading towards what she assumed was either a storage room or a walk-in refrigerator. Wayne led her past it into a small office that barely had room for the battered wooden desk, a faded sofa, and the two mismatched chairs inside. Papers were scattered across the surface, along with a chipped coffee mug and an old notebook with its spine held together with sheer determination.

Wayne sat down heavily in the chair behind the desk, gesturing for Savannah to take the other one. Se settled into it, resisting the urge to fidget. The office was small and claustrophobic, and it gave her the impression that it might have once been functional but now had been overtaken by the reality of running the café. The scent of coffee and pastries lingered in the air, mixing with the scent of ink and a faint hint of burnt plastic – likely from the ancient printer stuffed in the corner. The office wasn't unpleasant, but felt lived-in. Real.

Wayne leaned back in his chair, exhaling as if already weary of the process, but not in a way that made her feel unwelcome or rushed. Instead, she could tell that he was just a tired man. A man who likely had dozens of things on his mind, and many moving parts to keep track of. He was watching with the kind of steady, patient gaze that told her he'd done this before, or maybe that he already knew the outcome of this conversation. "So," he said at last, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his desk. "What's got you looking for work here?" His voice was calm and level—no pressure, no judgment. Just curiosity.

Savannah hesitated slightly, weighing her answers before speaking. "I need something to help bring in a little extra money," she said, keeping her tone light but honest. "And something to keep me busy."

Wayne gave a slow nod, as if that was about what he'd expected. "Ever worked in a café before?"

She shook her head. "No," she admitted. "I did work as a waitress for a few months, though."

That got a small hum of acknowledgement from him. "That's something," he said. "How'd you like it?"

Savannah considered the question. It had been… fine. A little exhausting, a little repetitive, but she'd enjoyed the rhythm once she hit her stride. She'd liked being able to keep her hands moving and her mind occupied. It had been a job she could disappear into and, back then, it was exactly what she'd needed. She'd also enjoyed working alongside Samuel, although he hadn't found the same enjoyment in it that she had. "It was alright," she said honestly. "I picked it up fast."

Wayne didn't look particularly surprised at that. He drummed his fingers against the desk, thoughtful. "This place isn't as fast paced as a diner," he told her. "But it does get busy. Some days are slow, some days you'll be on your feet for hours. Think you can handle that."

Savanna nodded. "I think so."

He studied her for another moment, then gave a short nod, seemingly satisfied with her answers. He leaned back in the chair again, crossing his arms over his chest. "Work here's pretty simple," he said. "You take orders, make drinks, clean up. Some light prep work if we needed it. Nothing fancy, but you gotta stay on top of it. People in Rookpoint come here for a quiet place to sit and unwind; we don't do the whole rushed, high-energy routine you get at some of those chain cafés."

Savannah could see that. Although she wouldn't dream of calling herself an expert on the Driftwood Café, she could see that it had that kind of slow, steady heartbeat – the kind of place people could come to lose themselves in a good book or a quiet conversation. It wasn't just about the coffee. It was about the atmosphere. "I can do that," she said, meeting his gaze.

Wayne watched her, then nodded again. "Alright. Great. What's your availability?"

"Open," she said without hesitation. "Whenever you need me."

A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, as if the answer amused him. "Well, that makes scheduling easy," he said with a quiet chuckle. "It'll be good to have someone flexible. Work isn't always about making coffee and wiping tables. Some days, you might have to do a supply run; pick up pastries from Bright's Bakery or drop off a bill or two if I'm stuck. That a problem?"

She shook her head. "Not at all."

Wayne regarded her skeptically, mildly surprised by how quickly she had answered. "You sure? It's not always fun, running all over town for errands."

She tipped her head slightly. "I don't mind errands," she said truthfully. She didn't – moving around, staying busy, and having a task to focus on? That was the easy part. It was learning the rhythms and the smaller details of the job that would take her longer.

Wayne nodded, satisfied. "Alright. Like I said, it's not a high-stress job, but you do have to stay on top of things. Our regulars expect consistency, and they'll notice when something's off. Folks in this town are funny like that." He rested his elbows on the table, drumming his fingers as if he'd just thought of something else. "You good with people?"

"I think so," she said.

He made a noise in the back of his throat that she couldn't identify "It's not just about taking orders, you'll have to learn to read people. Some customers want to chat, while others want to be left alone. Learn which is which, and you'll do fine." He was quiet for a few moments longer, watching her closely, before he sighed and sat back in his chair again. He took a pair of glasses out of his pocket, putting them on the bridge of his nose before speaking again. "Right. I don't like dragging things out, so here's the deal – I could use the help, and you seem like you can handle yourself. Pay's not great, but it's fair, and I don't run people into the ground. Trial basis at first for now to see how you do. Sound good?"

Savannah was caught off guard by how quickly he shifted gears into wrapping things up. "Yeah," she said. "That sounds good."

Wayne nodded once. "Then welcome to the Driftwood," he said, standing up and offering his hand again. This time, Savannah shook it with more certainty.

"When do I start?" she asked.

Wayne adjusted his glasses, looking down at a calendar on his desk. "How's tomorrow?" he asked.

"Tomorrow works."

"Good," Wayne said, picking up a pen and writing something on the calendar to remind himself. "Come in around seven, and I'll have one of the girls show you the ropes."

Savannah stood up, nodding as a strange sense of relief settled in her chest. It had been a while since she'd had something solid to hold onto, even something as simple as a part-time café job.

Wayne glanced up as she reached the door. "Oh, and Savannah?"

She paused, looking back.

His expression was unreadable, but not unkind. "Try not to let Natalie talk you into too much trouble."

The Ocean's Cradle pulsed with life, the steady thrum of conversation weaving with the low beat of the music playing over the speakers. The scent of salt and liquor hung in the air, mingling with a tang of citrus and the smokiness that always seemed to cling to the wooden walls. The bar was settling into its evening routine, still not quite at its peak, but busy enough that the energy had started to build, promising a long night head.

Samuel was used to the rhythm of the place by now. He leaned against the back wall by the bar, arms crossed and eyes scanning the room with the same quiet watchfulness as usual. He wasn't officially working yet—he still had about ten minutes before his shift officially started—but he rarely showed up on time. He preferred to be early as opposed to late.

Wesley was already behind the bar, hands moving with practiced ease as he poured a drink for a waiting customer. Samuel was about to push off the wall and go clock in when Marcus stepped out of the office, his gait slow but steady. His sharp eyes scanned the floor before locking onto both Samuel and Wesley. He gave a short, expectant nod. "You two. Back room."

That was all he said before turning and heading back into his office.

Samuel pushed off the wall with a sigh, glancing at Wesley, who met his gaze with a slight raise of his brow before setting down the bottle he'd just picked up. Neither of them questioned it. When Marcus called them into the back, they went. Samuel wondered if something had happened, or if he'd done something. He couldn't help it – it was the same feeling as back in school, being called to the principal's office.

The back rooms of the Ocean's Cradle were quiet, removed from the noise and energy of the bar. The office wasn't fancy—Marcus wasn't a man for unnecessary luxuries—but it was clean, organized, and practical. The few fineries he did have were awards, plaques, and neatly framed photographs. A wooden desk sat against the back wall, covered in nearly stacked paperwork, and a few ledgers were left open – evidence of the calculations he had been making. The room smelled of old wood and the lingering scent of pipe tobacco, though Marcus had long since stopped smoking.

The older man settled into his chair, leaning back slightly and clasping his cane in both hands. He studied them for a moment, his hawkish gaze flicking from one to the other before he spoke. "I've got good news," he said. "The Ocean's Cradle is about to see a hell of a boost in business." He tapped the cane with one of his fingers, the ring he wore clicking against the wood. "There's been an investment—a big one. Victor Blackwell has been putting money into the town, and this place is getting a benefit from it."

Samuel's brow furrowed slightly. Blackwell… he'd heard the name tossed around a bit lately. Mostly casual conversations about some big-shot businessman buying up properties, injecting cash into failing storefronts, and pushing money into places that had been on the verge of collapse. All very philanthropic, or so people were saying. He hadn't thought much of it at the time—rich people playing with their money wasn't anything new to him—but this was the first he had heard about it affecting the bar.

Marcus continued. "This investment means a lot more foot traffic, better supply chains, and—most importantly—more money coming through here. We're already seeing an increase in customers, and it's only going to get busier. To capitalize on that, we're hosting an overnight event next weekend. Big celebrations, live music, special drinks, the works."

Samuel felt a flicker of irritation. He already knew what that meant for him.

"You'll need me on shift," he said flatly.

Marcus nodded, unsurprised by Samuel's reaction. "Yes, you're on shift," he confirmed. "But it's not just keeping the peace this time." He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. "I need you handling more than just the usual bouncer work. You've got experience with this sort of thing—dealing with crowds, keeping things running smooth. You're picking up extra duties. Bussing tables, running food, maybe even jumping behind the bar if things get too chaotic."

Samuel exhaled sharply, the irritation flashing across his face before he forced it down. "So, I'm doing two jobs now."

"Consider it a compliment," Marcus said, unfazed. "You've proven you can handle yourself. The last thing I need is some dumbass thinking this event's an excuse to turn the place into a warzone. You keep people in line without making a scene. That's not something I can say about a lot of guys." His gaze sharpened. "I trust you not to let things go to hell."

Samuel ran a hand down his face, already resigning himself to the long night. He hated crowded, overhyped events like this. Too much noise, too many people thinking they could get away with anything because it was a "celebration." But Marcus wasn't wrong—if things got out of hand, he was one of the few people who could rein it in without making a bigger mess. "Fine," he said, dropping his hand. "But if I catch some drunk asshole trying to start shit while I'm in the middle of clearing plates, I'm breaking something over his head."

Marcus smirked, the closest thing to amusement he ever showed. "You'll manage, and you'll be paid extra for it."

The conversation might have ended there if it weren't for Wesley, who had been silent up until now. He shifted slightly, just enough to make it clear he had something to say. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet but edged. "Victor Blackwell." The name hung in the air, heavy. "I've heard of him."

Marcus glanced at him, brow lifting slightly. "Oh, is that so?"

Wesley nodded, his expression unreadable. "Back when I was working in the city. His name came up now and then. He's the kind of guy who doesn't throw money around unless he's getting something out of it."

Samuel shot Wesley a look. "That's most rich people."

Wesley didn't react. "This isn't just some wealthy investor trying to 'help' a small town. He's got an angle. He always does."

Marcus exhaled through his nose, leaning back in his chair. "I don't doubt it."

That surprised Samuel a little. "So, you think this is shady too?"

"I think," Marcus said slowly, cautiously, "that nothing comes free. Blackwell's putting money into this town, and yes, Ocean's Cradle is benefiting. But I'm not blind." His fingers drummed against the desk. "I don't trust a man like that any more than I'd trust a fisherman not to gut a fish once it's in his net. But as of right now, he hasn't done anything except make things easier for us."

Wesley's eyes remained locked on Marcus, unreadable as ever. "For now."

Marcus inclined his head. "For now."

Silence stretched between the three of them. The noise of the bar was muffled through the office walls, but the distant thrum of conversation and clinking glasses was ever-present. Samuel crossed his arms again, the unease from Wesley's words settling somewhere deep in his gut. He wasn't the type to jump at shadows, but he also knew Wesley didn't talk just to hear himself speak. If he was wary, there was a reason.

Still, there wasn't much they could do about it. Not yet.

"So, next weekend's gonna be hell," Samuel said, changing the subject.

Marcus snorted. "Pretty much."

Samuel sighed, rolling his shoulders. "Guess I'll try not to kill anybody."

"Good man." Marcus leaned back in his chair. "That'll keep my paperwork to a minimum."

He turned toward the door, nodding once at Marcus before stepping out of the office, the sound of the bar swelling around him the second he was back in the main room. The shift from the quiet back room to the pulsing life of Ocean's Cradle was always jarring. Voices layered over one another in waves of half-heard conversations, the clinking of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter adding to the steady rhythm of the place. The scent of alcohol, citrus, and warm bodies filled the air, thick but familiar.

Back in the office, however, Marcus didn't move.

Wesley hadn't either.

The younger man was still standing there, his posture straight, hands tucked into his pockets, waiting. Marcus studied him for a moment, sharp eyes measuring something unspoken. Then, finally, he spoke.

"I'm not sure if Blackwell himself is going to show up this weekend," Marcus said, his voice even, but there was an edge of something heavier beneath it. "But I need someone keeping an eye out just in case."

Wesley didn't react, but Marcus knew him well enough to catch the slight shift in his expression—just a flicker, there and gone, but it told him everything he needed to know. Wesley had already expected this.

"Not just Blackwell," Marcus continued. "His people, too. If they're here, I want to know what they're up to."

Wesley finally spoke, his voice quiet, smooth. "And if they're up to something?"

Marcus exhaled through his nose, leaning back slightly in his chair. "That depends on what it is." He tapped a finger against the desk, slow and measured. "I'm not looking to pick a fight with a man who could buy this entire damn street if he wanted to. But I'm also not about to let Ocean's Cradle get caught up in something I don't like the look of." His gaze sharpened. "You see something, you hear something, you tell me."

There was a brief stretch of silence. The sound of the bar filtered in faintly through the walls, but inside the office, it felt muted. Wesley stood still, thoughtful.

Then, he gave a small nod. "Understood."

Marcus didn't thank him—didn't need to. They both knew how this worked. Wesley didn't trust Blackwell. Hell, Wesley didn't trust anyone. That was exactly why Marcus wanted him on this. If there was even a whisper of something underhanded going on, Wesley would catch it.

"Good," Marcus said simply. "You can go."

Wesley didn't waste time. He turned and left without another word, slipping out of the office and back into the noise of the bar.

Marcus sat there for a moment longer, fingers steepled as he stared at the far wall.

He hadn't told them everything.

It wasn't just that Blackwell was throwing money into Rookpoint—it was how he was doing it. Some businesses had been floundering for years, and suddenly, overnight, they were back on their feet. No explanation. No clear investments. Just… money.

Marcus had been around long enough to know that money never just appeared. Someone always paid the price.

And he'd be damned if he let that price include his bar.