The bell above Lucas’s diner door rings, and I swear I can feel it vibrate straight through my ribs.

He hates that bell. Calls it “the single worst sound known to mankind.” Which is funny, because he’s the one who installed it in the first place. Typical Lucas — eternally at war with his own decisions.

The smell of coffee and bacon greets me like a hug. Or maybe it’s just that he’s here. Standing behind the counter, pouring coffee like a human version of reliability. Flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, hair shoved beneath that backward cap that’s older than my car. And just like that, the day gets better.

“Lucas,” I announce, letting the name fill the air. “Tell me you didn’t have only coffee for breakfast again.”

He doesn’t look up, but his jaw ticks — the tiniest tell that I’m right. “Mm,” he grunts. Which, translated from Grump to English, means "so what?"

I sigh, dramatically. “You’re going to die of caffeine poisoning before you hit forty.”

He ignores me, of course. He always does. Which is fine, because I never actually shut up, and he somehow always listens anyway.

The diner is half full — Mrs. Donnelly with her crossword, the Johnson twins fighting over syrup, someone’s baby babbling near the window — but it feels like the world narrows to the small distance between me and Lucas. He’s all rough edges and steady hands. A walking contradiction: cranky but gentle, quiet but always there.

Last week, Brad — the guy I’ve been trying to date, emphasis on trying — screamed when a beetle landed on his sleeve. Like, full-volume, sitcom-style scream. Then made me chase it out the window. With a rolled-up magazine. Me.

Lucas once caught a raccoon in my attic with his bare hands. It’s not even a fair comparison. But I keep making it anyway.

Brad wears suits that look like they come with instructional pamphlets. Lucas wears the same faded jeans until I threaten to sneak them into the wash myself. Brad takes me to restaurants with “conceptual menus” and “deconstructed salads.” Lucas cooks me diner pancakes shaped like hearts — not on purpose, he swears, but I see the way his ears go red when I point it out.

Brad texts, “goodnight :)”. Lucas shows up on my porch with a wrench because I mentioned a leaky faucet six days ago.

I tell myself I like Brad because he’s safe. Predictable. Someone my dad might actually approve of.

My dad — the heart of Maplewood Inn, everyone’s favorite host and my favorite person in the world. He raised me alone after Mom died. She was gone before I could remember her, and sometimes that feels like a hole I was born with. But Dad filled it with stories and laughter and a home that smells like cinnamon and old wood.

And Lucas.

Lucas, who has been there since the day we moved back to this town, when I was four and too shy to make friends. He offered me half a candy bar, and I decided he was mine. I’ve been deciding that ever since.

I run the front desk at the Inn now — reservations, guest requests, event planning — the whole shebang. I love it, but it means I’m constantly in the orbit of tourists and their perfect, photo-ready love stories. Couples who come here to “reconnect” or “reignite their spark.”

Sometimes I look at them and wonder if anyone’s ever looked at me like that. Then I look at Lucas, and I don’t let myself wonder too hard.

Because he’s… Lucas. My best friend. The man who knows how I take my coffee, who fixed my porch steps without me asking, who pretends to hate town festivals but still shows up every time I’m running one, holding a tray of lemonade like he’s been emotionally blackmailed (which, to be fair, he usually has).

The town’s been betting for years on when we’ll finally “figure it out.” I laugh it off, but deep down, I think they know something I don’t have the courage to admit. Because I keep dating guys like Brad — shiny, nice, un-Lukas-like — and somehow, every single time, I find myself here.

At this counter. In this diner. Watching the man who won’t meet my eyes but always knows when to refill my cup. And I know, without meaning to, that this is home.