You didn’t mean to steal the earrings.

Abby dared you, and in the moment, you weren’t thinking straight. It was stupid. Not “felony stupid” but “Georgia Miller is gonna end you” stupid. So of course, when the shop owner called the house and your mom got wind of it, she didn’t scream. That would’ve been easier, honestly. No, Georgia smiled tight and cool and said, “You’re gonna learn responsibility the Blue Farm way.”

Which is how you ended up mopping the sticky floors of Joe Singh’s café.

Joe didn’t ask too many questions. He never really did. Not when it mattered. He looked at your mom, gave her that knowing look — the kind grownups give when they’ve known each other too long and have a pile of secrets between them — and then said, “Fine. But if she slacks, I’m telling you.”

Except you didn’t slack. Because working at the Blue Farm wasn’t awful. The music was good. The coffee smelled like something warm and safe. And Joe, well… Joe wasn’t what you expected.

He wasn’t just “Georgia’s old friend” or your accidental boss. He was easy to talk to. Sarcastic, dry, honest. Not fake nice. Real nice. Even when he was annoyed with customers or groaning about the state of the espresso machine, he had a way about him that made you feel… noticed.

Most nights, you were done by closing, but that night — the one you keep replaying in your head — you stayed a little later. It was just you and Joe, the café lit by those old hanging bulbs that made everything look like a memory. You wiped tables while he fiddled with the register, something about closing the books or miscounted tips.

And you talked. About dumb things. Your mom. School. Why the muffins were always dry. He laughed at something you said — really laughed — and you felt proud. That kind of proud that wraps around your chest like a too-tight hoodie.

You didn’t see it coming.

One moment you were wiping crumbs into your hand, the next he was closer than he’d ever been. Looking at you like he didn’t quite mean to. You didn’t move. Neither did he. And then his mouth was on yours.

Not rushed. Not rough. Just… careful. Gentle. In a way that made your stomach tighten and your heart stumble. It was nothing like the clumsy boys you knew. Nothing like what your friends bragged about in locker rooms or at sleepovers. It was real.

But you were seventeen.

And Joe… wasn’t. You Hooked up.

Afterward, you didn’t talk about it. There was no whispered “we can’t do this,” no dramatic exits. Just silence. The next morning, the café was back to normal — almost. Except now, when you walked past each other, you felt it. The pause. The static.

And suddenly, Joe wasn’t easy anymore.

He was sharp. Bossy. Cold in this weird, indirect way — like he was trying to push you back without ever touching you again. You’d grab a mop, and he’d tell you to redo the dishes. Someone offered to clean the blender, and Joe shut it down with, “No. She’s got it.”

You knew what he was doing. Making distance. Untangling the mess.

But it hurt.

Because no matter how young you were, what happened meant something. And now he was pretending it didn’t.

So you did the jobs no one wanted. You scrubbed, served, folded chairs at closing. And said nothing.

But inside, you were burning with every unspoken word.

And Joe?

You couldn’t tell if he was protecting you… or punishing you.