rise by Laurel Krown

But that morning, her thoughts refused to line up neatly. She woke before her alarm, the kind of alert that didn’t come from rest but from her mind deciding it had thought enough for one night. She stared at the ceiling for a full minute before rolling onto her side and squinting at the clock. 6:47 a.m. Early, even for her. She went through the motions anyway. Shower. Coffee. Music low enough to barely hear. The steps came easily, like muscle memory, but her focus stumbled over itself, replaying flashes from the night before. The mixer, the laughter, the blurred lights and meaningless small talk, and him.

Harlan Crestwell.

The name had a certain rhythm to it, clean and deliberate, like a name that always carried weight. The kind people said with recognition, not because they knew him, but because they wished they did. And she could see him again, not the whole of him, but the parts her mind insisted on keeping. The small scar above his left eyebrow, faint but distinct, like a forgotten story he never bothered to explain. His warm brown eyes that didn’t dart around the room, but observed it quietly, steadily. The slight wave of his hair brushing against his forehead. The calm in his expression that didn’t try to impress anyone. She poured her coffee, steady hands, steady breath, but her mind was anything but steady. She could still feel the way he had looked at her, not with interest, not with ego, but with curiosity, the kind of look that stayed quiet and unassuming, like he was trying to understand her without asking.

It shouldn’t have lingered, but it did, and it annoyed her. Not him, her reaction. She wasn’t supposed to notice people like that. Not the ones who thrived in crowds, who seemed built for attention without trying. She liked people who made her feel, not people who made her wonder. Yet something about his calm, the way he carried himself like he belonged everywhere and nowhere, had unsettled her in a way she couldn’t name.

By the time she sat down at her desk, her to-do list was already half written, though her handwriting looked different, looser, almost impatient. She tried to focus on the assignment due Monday, but her thoughts wandered. She reread the same line three times before closing her notebook altogether. When her phone buzzed and Cassie’s name appeared, she knew exactly what was coming.

Did you see who you were talking to last night?? You and Harlan Crestwell in the same sentence? That’s history.

Laya exhaled, a faint smile tugging at her lips. Cassie’s excitement was harmless, but she didn’t need the reminder. She had better things to think about, or at least, she should have. Her psychology exam was in two days, and she had barely made it through half the study guide. She grabbed her notebook, laptop, and headphones, stuffing them into her worn leather bag. If she couldn’t quiet her thoughts, she could at least redirect them.

She decided to drive to Cannon Beach, to the Sleepy Monk Café. It was her favorite spot to think, a small, sun-warmed coffeehouse tucked close to the oceanfront, its windows fogged from espresso steam and the salt-heavy mist drifting in from the shore. The drive itself helped, each turn of Highway 26 smoothing out the static in her mind. By the time she pulled into the gravel lot, the scent of roasted beans and sea air wrapped around her like a familiar memory.

Inside, the café hummed softly. The walls were lined with reclaimed wood, and the counter glowed under warm amber light. Beth stood behind it, her gray hair swept into its usual loose bun, reading glasses perched on her head. She was sixty-six, calm, sharp, and the kind of person who made you feel instantly known.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Beth said, looking up from her paperwork. “You’re early today.”

Laya smiled. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Beth nodded knowingly. “Coffee, then. The strong kind.”

“Always.”

Beth started grinding beans, the air filling with the earthy scent Laya loved. “Studying again?”

“Psychology exam,” Laya said, setting her bag down at her usual table by the window. “I’m behind.”

Beth chuckled softly. “You always say that, and then you end up explaining things better than the textbooks.”

“Maybe you just make it easier to think,” Laya replied, her voice relaxing for the first time that morning.

Beth tilted her head as she wiped down the counter. “Or maybe you think too much.”

Laya laughed quietly. “Maybe.”

Outside, the sky over Cannon Beach was pale and damp, the kind of gray that made everything feel slower. Through the window, she watched tourists walk past with sand stuck to their shoes, the ocean misting in the distance. She opened her laptop, fingers hovering over the keyboard, but her eyes drifted instead to the horizon. She loved moments like this, the quiet ones that felt like an unfinished sentence.

Maybe the café would reset her mind, the way it always did. Maybe Beth would say something that made everything click again. And maybe, if she stayed busy enough, she could stop thinking about Harlan Crestwell, the boy with the quiet eyes, the unassuming curiosity, and the tiny scar above his eyebrow that somehow felt like the beginning of a story she wasn’t supposed to want to hear. The boy who looked at her like she was something he recognized, even though they had never met before, a puzzle he didn’t need to solve, only understand.