Monday mornings at The Daily Drip were like waking up with a hangover you didn't earn—head fuzzy from the weekend's what-ifs, body screaming for mercy before the first sip.
I'd crashed hard after that family dinner, Mom's words looping in my brain like a bad remix: Love's wires, sometimes. Tangled.
Yeah, well, so was my life.
The train ride home had been a blur of flickering ads for self-defense classes ("Wire-Proof Your Walk!") and a guy in the corner muttering about "the devil's network" under his breath.
Eldridge didn't do subtle; it shoved its fears down your throat with a chaser of indifference.
By 6:45 a.m., I was behind the counter, apron tied tight enough to cut off circulation, steam wand hissing like it had a grudge.
Lila was late—again—leaving me solo for the early stragglers.
Marco lounged by the register, scrolling his phone with that lazy smirk, the one that said he owned the air in here.
"You good, Kane? Look like you saw a ghost."
His eyes dipped to my neckline, casual as checking the weather.
"Just the usual," I muttered, frothing milk for a flat white.
Usual meant ignoring the way his fingers "slipped" when handing over cups, or how he'd corner me in the stockroom with "inventory chats" that lasted too long.
Last week, it'd been a brush against my hip—apology fake as his highlights.
I reported it once, to HR (which was just him in a polo shirt), and got a lecture on "team dynamics."
Classic Marco: All charm, zero boundaries.
The door chimed, and in walked Theo, right on his 7:15 schedule.
Laptop bag slung over one shoulder, hair tousled like he'd run fingers through it thinking of someone.
Me? Probably not—guy was sweet, but his crushes were broadcasts, not secrets.
"El! Saved you a seat," he called, claiming the corner booth like territory.
It was our "thing"—him nursing a black coffee, me stealing sips during lulls, trading dumb stories about bad dates or worse bosses.
I slid his order over, foam heart wobbling on top.
"Hero status unlocked. Extra strong today?"
He grinned, that dimple flashing like a green light.
"Nah, just enough to pretend I'm human. You? Weekend vibes?"
I leaned on the counter, wiping steam from my glasses.
"Family dinner. Pot roast and paranoia. Mom's on a Wire kick—thinks every shadow's got a chip in it."
I laughed it off, but it stuck, the way her grip had tightened, like I was the kid again, hiding under the table during Dad's blowups.
Theo's face sobered, eyes flicking to the muted TV above the pastry case.
Channel 7 loop: Breaking: Wire Victim #5 Speaks Out.
The woman—mid-thirties, corporate sharp in a silk blouse that hid the bandages—stared hollow-eyed at the camera.
"He didn't kill me. Worse. Made me watch my life... all the lies I told myself. Voicemails from people I hurt, played back with his voice whispering, 'Admit it.' Hours. Days? I lost time."
Cut to protesters outside City Hall: Signs reading Justice for the Tangled and Fund the Hunt, chants muffled by rain.
Commissioner Hale's face popped up next, sweaty under the lights: "We've got leads—anonymous tips pouring in. Behavioral profilers say he's methodical, not random. Targeting guilt, maybe. Women with secrets."
The ticker scrolled: FBI Joint Task Force: $5M Reward. Tip Line: 1-800-WIRE-HUNT.
Theo whistled low. "Jesus. My sister's texting me nonstop—won't even jog alone anymore. City's turning into a pressure cooker."
He paused, stirring his coffee absently. "You okay? I mean, really? That Uber offer from your dad... or, y'know, I could—"
"Drive me?" I cut in, half-teasing, but his cheeks pinked, and suddenly the air felt thicker than the espresso fog.
Theo was the safe bet: Steady job coding for some fintech startup, volunteered at animal shelters, quoted poetry when he thought no one was listening (last time, it was Neruda—I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees. Smooth, but I clocked the try-hard).
We'd flirted edges—his hand on mine over shared scones, my laugh lingering a beat too long—but it never tipped.
Nice guys like him were rare; I didn't want to break one.
Before I could dodge, Lila burst in, five minutes late, blue hair wild from the wind.
"Traffic from hell—some idiot stalled on the bridge, Wire panic or whatever."
She dumped her bag, shooting Theo a side-eye that could curdle milk.
Lila and I had bonded over late-night rants in college: Her over bad exes who ghosted, me over Dad's "disappointments."
But lately? Her snips sharpened.
Last shift, she'd "accidentally" spilled iced latte on my notebook, pages blooming with coffee stains.
"Oops, klutz mode."
Then, to Marco: "Elara's got that glow—must be all the attention."
Jealousy? Nah, she swore it was "just vibes."
But I saw the tally: My tips outpacing hers, Theo's eyes on me, even Ramirez slipping notes under my door.
She clocked in, bumping my shoulder a tad too hard.
"Booth boy's staring. Reel him in before he codes himself a girlfriend app."
Theo overheard, chuckling awkwardly. "Guilty. But hey, El—speaking of apps. Made one for fun: 'Shadow Spotter.' Logs routes, flags sketchy spots based on news pings. Beta-tested it walking you home last week."
He pulled out his phone, screen glowing with a map dotted red—high-risk zones, Wire sightings marked like acne on the city grid.
My stomach flipped, half-warmed, half-weirded.
"You... tracked me?"
It came out sharper than meant, and his face fell like I'd yanked the plug.
"No! God, no—just, y'know, safety. For you. The news... it's everywhere."
He rubbed his neck, voice dropping. "Look, forget it. But seriously—coffee outside this zoo? Tonight? My treat. No apps, scout's honor."
Lila snorted from the espresso machine, grinding beans loud enough to drown secrets.
Marco perked up, leaning in: "Date night? Kane, you're full of surprises. Need the shift covered?"
His wink was oil-slick, and I swear Lila's glare could've lit the place up.
I hesitated, Theo's earnest eyes pulling like gravity.
Why not? He wasn't Marco's wandering hands or Dad's checklists or Mom's fragile hopes.
He was... easy. Safe.
In a city wiring itself into knots, safe sounded like oxygen.
"Yeah. Text me the spot. 7?"
His grin exploded, dimple on full blast.
"Done. You'll love it—little bookstore cafe, poetry slams on Mondays. Fits you."
As he typed in my number (we'd danced around it for weeks), the TV droned on: Public Reaction Mixed: Support Groups Form, But Vigilante Rumors Swirl.
Cut to a street interview—some guy in a hoodie: "Government's dragging ass. If I catch that freak..."
Mom's text buzzed my pocket: Saw the news. Home by 8? Love you.
Dad: Uber receipt? Sent.
Lila, whispering as Theo left: "Bold move. But watch—nice guys hide strings too."
(If adding: Drop here after the rush, for that "wire hums under the foam" prickle. Builds the lurking dread mid-shift.)
The rush hit then, a wave of orders crashing: Cappuccinos for the yoga cult, americanos for the suits barking into Bluetooths.
Marco "helped," his arm grazing my waist in the pass—electric, unwanted.
"Careful, Kane. Hot stuff."
I sidestepped, heart hammering not from flirt but flight.
Lila caught it, smirking: "Told you—attention's a curse."
By noon lull, my notebook was out, pen flying: Brewed in the steam of what-ifs, awkward sips of maybe. But the wire hums under the foam—tangled, waiting to pull.
Theo's text lit up: Can't wait. Address?
I sent it, ignoring the prickle at my neck, like eyes from the window.
Shift dragged after that— a spilled tray (Lila's "oops" again, syrup sticky on my shoes), Marco's "chat" in the back about "advancement opportunities" that smelled like overtime favors.
I clocked out at 6:30, feet protesting the walk to the bus, city dusk wrapping like a damp blanket.
Sirens wailed distant—another trace?
The bodega TV flickered as I grabbed gum: Wire Tip Line Overloaded—100 Calls Hourly. Experts: He's Local, Knows the Grid.
Patel slid me a free pack of mints.
"Eyes open, beta. Pretty girls like you? Prime wire."
His kindness landed heavy, paternal in a way Dad's never did.
The bus was packed, bodies pressed too close—a hand on my thigh, gone when I twisted.
Theo's spot waited at the cafe: Cozy nook called The Quill's Edge, shelves groaning with dog-eared hardcovers, jazz humming low.
He waved from a table piled with zines, two steaming mugs waiting.
"Irish cream latte—your poison, right? From that story you told."
I slid in, warmth seeping through porcelain.
"Stalker much?"
But I smiled, because damn, it felt good.
We talked easy—his failed band days (drums in a garage punk outfit), my chapbook rejections ("They said 'too raw'—code for 'scares the suits'").
He read a line from my notebook (I'd left it out, fool), voice soft: "'Threads pull, but who holds the spool?' El, that's fire."
Laughter bubbled, real and rare, his knee brushing mine under the table—not pushy, just there.
The slam started—open mic poets spilling guts about lost loves and city scars.
One girl, voice cracking: "He wired my heart to his lies—pulled till I sparked."
Crowd hushed; Theo's hand found mine, thumb tracing circles.
Safe. Tangled?
As we walked out at 9, his arm loose around my shoulders against the chill, my phone buzzed—unknown number: Cute date. Be careful with the strings.
Spam? Or the city's whisper?
Theo hailed a cab, oblivious. "Home safe?"
"Yeah," I lied, sliding in.
But as Eldridge lights blurred, Mom's words echoed: Tangled.
And in the rearview, a shadow car lingered—just a beat too long.