Micah went downstairs for coffee because he needed something to carry him through the rest of the afternoon, and because he no longer trusted the break room machine. Not after the incident with Jack. Micah couldn’t prove Jack had done anything wrong. There was nothing concrete. No witnesses. No evidence. Just a sense of off that had lodged itself behind Micah’s eyes and refused to leave. He would be a fool to drink anything Jack had previously had access to. Foolishness had a long memory.
Bennett’s coffee cart, on the other hand, was safe. Or at least it felt that way. The cart was half-shuttered when Micah arrived. Bennett had the machine open, panels removed, internal guts exposed like a patient mid-surgery. Tools were scattered across the counter in an elaborate constellation that suggested confidence without strategy.
Bennett glanced up. “Good news and bad news.”
Micah leaned against the nearby pillar. “Hit me.”
“Good news is I know what the problem is,” Bennett said. “Bad news is I may have made three new ones trying to fix it.” Micah watched quietly as Bennett adjusted something, frowned, adjusted something else, then frowned harder. Bennett was competent in the way people are when they are willing and earnest and absolutely out of their depth. After a minute, Bennett sighed and looked up. “You know I can hear you thinking, right?”
Micah blinked. “I’m not—”
“You are,” Bennett said cheerfully. “It’s loud. Distracting. Like a math problem pacing.” Micah felt a flicker of embarrassment, followed quickly by something else. Relief. Being noticed without being evaluated. Bennett wiped his hands on a towel and stepped back. “If you’re going to stare at it like that, you might as well help. Or at least tell me what I’m doing wrong.”
Micah hesitated. He’d been stretched thin for weeks, second-guessing himself, holding back, trying not to take up space. The idea of putting his hands inside something concrete, something mechanical and honest, felt like stepping into cooler air. He rolled up his sleeves and leaned in. “Oh,” he said softly. “You’re fighting it.”
“I always fight it,” Bennett said. “It builds character.”
Micah smiled despite himself. He pointed to a misaligned component, adjusted it with two precise movements, then rerouted a hose Bennett had looped unnecessarily. Three steps. Clean. Unshowy. The machine hummed, then settled into a smooth, steady rhythm.
Bennett stared. “I hate you a little.”
Micah stepped back. “You invited me.”
Bennett laughed and immediately started the machine. “Coffee’s on the house.”
Micah accepted the cup like it was a small mercy. When Bennett wasn’t looking, he dropped an absurd amount of cash into the tip jar. Bennett noticed but pretended not to. Micah took his coffee and headed back upstairs, shoulders looser, head clearer. For a few minutes, at least, something had worked exactly the way it was supposed to. And so had he.
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