#anna-hawk

When you disappear into the backroom to hang your apron and collect your bag, something disrupts the stillness of the shop when you hear a sudden banging upfront.

Laughter follows. Then a rattle. A hissing.

It makes you freeze on the spot, holding tight to your purse. You slide your hand inside and fumble to find the tube of pepper spray at the bottom of your bag. Your fingers curl around it, as you carefully peek out the circular window of the staff door.

Across from the shop, through the front windows, you spot a group of shadows moving too fast behind the glass with spray cans in hand, defacing the front of your shop.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” you mutter and switch on the lights to scare them.

As soon as the store lights up, they scurry away into the end of the street.

By the time you reach the front window, it’s already too late. Bright, ugly loops of paint streak across half of the glass. You angrily turn the lock and shove the door open, heart pounding with your own spray curled between your fingers, but they've already disappeared.

You stare at the big graffiti tag that resembles the unmistakable phallic shape of an uncircumcised penis with big balls. Really classy. Then you notice the addition on the board, more like a suggestion really, of something you should add to the fresh pressed juice menu list—Dick juice. It's not even clever. It'd make you laugh if it happened to someone else, to be honest. But you're too tired for laughter.

King County had been quiet for years. That was the whole reason you opened here. And now this was the third incident in two weeks.

You lock up again, pull out your phone, and dial the non-emergency line and explain what just happened.

After hanging up, you fold your arms, leaning against the counter while you wait for an officer to show up.

Ten minutes later, a familiar patrol car quietly rolls to a stop at the curb. The deputy inside the vehicle doesn’t step out right away. You watch him check his teeth and hair in the rearview mirror like he’s answering a social call instead of a disturbance. He pops a small piece of gum into his mouth, and then fixes his curls before getting out of the car.

Deputy Shane Walsh steps out like he owns the sidewalk with that same slow, easygoing confidence like nothing ever really rattles him.

His steps come to halt. Hanging his hands on his hips, he squints at your storefront, then over at you as you swing the door open.

“Well,” he says, lingering by the door frame. “Either Berry Bliss is the most dangerous place in King County, or you’re startin’ to get creative with your reasons to call me.”

You snort despite yourself. “Wow. Victim-blaming already? Bold move, Officer Walsh.”

He grins. “Hey, I’m just sayin’. Third time I’ve been out here this month. Starting to feel special.”

“Trust me,” you say. “If I were making things up to see you, I’d come up with something way more dramatic.”

He huffs a laugh and stands, eyes scanning the street out of habit. “Anyone see anything?”

“I don't know. The place was already closed. I was in the back. By the time I got outside, they were gone.”

“Mm-hm.” His brow tightens, skeptical in a way that’s more teasing than real. “You sure you didn’t scare ‘em off with that look?”

“I wish.”

“Mind if I take a look inside?”

“Be my guest,” you gesture, moving out of the way.

Shane glances around, posture relaxing slightly, like he’s already memorized the place. He’s been here enough—officially and unofficially. Reports, check-ins… The occasional “just passing through” that somehow always lines up with your slow hours.

He stops near the counter, eyes flicking up to the small black dome tucked into the corner above the door.

“Hey,” he holds a finger up. “That new?”

“Funny you should ask.” You hop behind the counter, crouch, and pull out the tablet you keep under the register.

“You know how you told me last time that next time would be easier if I had cameras?” you tap a couple of times, opening the feed to the security camera on the screen. “Turns out I listen.”

Shane’s eyebrows lift as you turn the screen toward him.

The footage plays. Dark but clear enough. Four figures in hoodies. Spray cans flashing silver under the streetlight. One of them trips, nearly eats pavement when they run away.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Told you.”

He leans closer, bracing one hand on the counter, eyes intent on the screen. You’re suddenly very aware of how close he is—warmth, faint scent of coffee and fresh mint, and something clean.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Guess I owe you an apology.”

You tilt your head. “For accusing me of crimes?”

“For implyin’ you’d fake vandalism just to see me,” he drawls, mouth corner twisting into a sly smirk. “Even though I wouldn’t blame you.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Careful, Deputy. That almost sounded like flirting.”

“Almost?” He straightens, meeting your eyes. “I’ll have to work on my delivery.”

He pulls out a notepad from his pocket to write the report and proceeds to take a few pictures for evidence of your window while you gather the cleaning supplies.

“You gonna clean it up now?” He asks when he spots you looping your apron back around your neck.

“I have to,” you shrug. “Otherwise, Mrs. Park will have a heart attack when she comes by first thing in the morning as usual.”

“You sure she wouldn't like some of that dick juice you added to the menu?” he scoffs. “Heard is good for the skin.”

You can't help but snort. “Is that why your face is always glowing, Deputy?”

“Hey, don’t knock it till you try it.”

Shaking your head with a faint smile, you pat his shoulder gently as you walk past him, heading out the street. You slip a pair of rubber gloves on and proceed to wipe the phallic art.

Shane doesn't leave right away. He hangs inside, picking up your tablet and going over the security footage for a second time.

“Gonna forward it to the station.” He says.

You glance and nod while you spray the window some more product. From the corner of your eye, you watch him place the tablet down on the counter before taking off his tan uniform shirt, showing a tight black t-shirt underneath. Your hand keeps scrubbing the glass, beyond it, you can’t help but notice the way the black sleeves hug his biceps when he carefully folds his shirt on the counter.

When he starts walking towards you, your stare goes back to your hand as you wipe the paint away. Without a word, he bends down and picks up another pad from your bucket to help you remove the stain quicker.

“I didn’t know this was part of your job description,” you say casually.

He shrugs. “It’s not. Thought I could stay until you’re done… just in case they come back.”

“Sure. Just in case.” You scoff.

You work side by side, the street quiet except for the distant bass thumping from the bar down the block. The paint comes off in stubborn streaks, but with both of you at it, it doesn’t take nearly as long as you expected.

When the glass is finally clear again, Berry Bliss glows pink and spotless like nothing ever happened.

As a thank you, you step behind the counter and turn on the blender. You carefully pick up some ingredients here and there, improvising a new recipe, while he perches his ass on a stool, arms resting on the counter, observing how you seamlessly drop different pieces into the container.

You don’t tell him what you’re making. You just start building it.

Vanilla Greek yogurt for heft. A spoonful of peanut butter. Frozen banana for texture. A handful of blueberries. A drizzle of honey. A pinch of cinnamon. Oat milk to smooth it out. Then, on a whim, a splash of cold brew concentrate.

The blender hums low and steady, thickening into something darker and richer than anything on your regular menu. You pour it into a tall clear cup and dust the top lightly with cocoa.

You slide it across the counter toward him.

He eyes it like it’s evidence, then takes a slow swallow. His posture shifts almost immediately as the flavor coats his tongue.

“Not bad,” he says, which from him might as well be a five-star review.

“It’s not supposed to be bad.” You lean your elbows on the counter across from him. “Consider it a hazard pay.”

Shane takes another sip and studies you over the rim of the cup, mouth curving faintly.

“Guess I’ll have to keep comin’ back,” he puts the glass down on the counter between you and him.

“For the smoothies?” You ask with a teasing glance.

“Just for the smoothies,” he winks at you, licks his lips, throws his glass back to take another swig.

Biting your lower lip, you watch him down every drop, swipe his finger on the rim and clean it with his tongue as hunger sinks low in your body. Not your stomach. Somewhere deep below, a stir, a longing, a fire that's aided by the way his dark gaze flicks up to yours.

“You should name it,” he suggests, tapping the empty glass against the counter.

“Hm.” You tilt your head and consider. “How about… Smooth à la Shane?”

“That’s got a nice ring to it.” He chuckles lightly, leaning forward, forearms braced on the counter. “Though if you’re gonna call it à la Shane, you gotta add one more important ingredient.”

“Really? Thought you said you liked it.”

“I do. But there's one thing missing.” Lifting his ass from the stool, he angles his body closer to you.

“And what would that be, Deputy?”

He reaches up, thumb, and forefinger gently catching your chin, guiding your face toward his.

“A kiss from the smoothie maker.” Shane whispers an inch away from your lips.

The laugh that leaves you is soft, breathless. You lean into his touch instead of pulling away. His lips softly meet yours. They part only slightly to let you taste the flavor left in his mouth of your own concoction. Just enough pressure to make your stomach flip, and your knees feel strangely unreliable. It's short but sweet. Over way too fast.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. Just enough to look at you as you press your fingers lightly to your lips, unable to hide your smile.

“I think you’re right,” you murmur. “That was exactly what it was missing.”