Lavender & Cinnamon

Sage made lavender tea every Sunday morning.

Always with a spoonful of honey.

And just a pinch of cinnamon.

That’s how Aaron used to take his.

That’s the only way she’d drunk it for the last three years.

He used to say it tasted like spring mornings and new beginnings. Now it just tasted like what should’ve been.

She didn’t make it to forget; she made it to remember.

A small, sacred ritual for a love that never got to grow old.

As the tea steeped, she stirred slowly and watched the steam curl into the air like a memory you can't catch. Her mind slipped back to the first morning Aaron had made it for her—broad shoulders and bare chest, pajama pants hanging low on his waist. He’d walked in grinning, hair wild, mug in hand like this was the only moment that mattered.

“Morning, baby. Thought I’d try something new.”

She could still feel the warmth of his kiss on her forehead as he handed her the tea. Could still hear him say, “This is us, right here.” Their inside acknowledgment of the life they were building together.

The mug trembled in her hand.

She blinked back the ache, cleared her throat, and took a sip.

Then she grabbed her bag and stepped out into the world.

Jonah always showed up an hour before the Root & Bloom Café opened.

It was his spot—his café, his peace.

Before the staff arrived, the morning rush, before the noise—just him, the city waking up, and that first chai latte of the day. He’d sit in the back corner booth, legs stretched out, steam rising from his mug, watching the sun roll over the rooftops. Sometimes he’d scribble in a notebook. Sometimes he’d just sit quiet. It was the best part of his day.

Until she walked in.

She came in on a Wednesday.

Sun was out, sky was clear, but she looked like she was dragging clouds behind her.

Jonah clocked her the second she stepped in—long brown coat, curls tucked just behind her ear, eyes like she’d been carrying too much for too long.

She didn’t notice him, tucked in the shadows of the back booth. But he saw her. Felt her even. He couldn’t look away.

She stepped up to the counter, scanned the chalkboard menu like it held answers to questions she didn’t know how to ask.

“Just coffee, please. Three sugars, two creams,” she said, voice soft but rich—like jazz vinyl on a rainy night. She moved like a melody—low, smooth, familiar in a way he couldn’t name.

She paid, nodded politely, and slid into the table by the window.

And she kept coming back.

Every Wednesday.

Always around 9:17 a.m.

Same order. Same seat. Same far-off look.

She’d open a book, read a few pages, then stare out the window like she was waiting on something—or someone—that never came. Then she’d read again. Sip. Pause. Repeat.

Jonah never said a word. Not yet. But every week, he was there. Watching from his booth. Wondering.

Then one week, she didn’t come.

9:17 came and went.

Then 9:30.

Then 10.

One week. Then two. The seat by the window stayed empty. He told himself he was being ridiculous. Customers come and go. People change routines. He told himself not to care. He didn’t even know her name.

But the feeling was there, calling him a liar. The hollow ache of losing something he never quite had.

Sage couldn’t stop thinking about the man in the back booth. She had taken a break from visiting the little café. It had become part of her routine. But there was just something about that man.

Broad shoulders, warm complexion, and a quiet confidence that filled the room without trying. He had one of those faces that made you wonder what he was thinking about—soft jawline, full lips, and eyes that looked like they knew something about loss.

Every time she came in, he was there.

Always in that same seat.

Coffee in hand, always writing something—notes, letters, maybe lyrics—who knew.

But he had a presence. And she noticed him. Every single time.

--

Sage walked through the light crowd at the Sunday farmer’s market, lost in her own reverie—and bam, collided with someone.

Her bag hit the floor. Her heart went with it.

She looked up, lips parting to apologize to the stranger. Sage tilted her head, recognition blooming.

“You,” she said, breathlessly. Half from the collision, but mostly from the proximity.

His scent was intoxicating.

“The café. You sit in the back booth.”

The man grinned. That slow, crooked grin that crept up like mischief.

He nodded. “Jonah,” he said. “Owner of The Root & Bloom... also known as the guy in the back booth.”

She could feel her cheeks flush…

“And you like the window seat… coffee, three sugars, two creams.”

“Also known as Sage,” she said trying and failing to stop the smile that had crept across her lips.

He had noticed her.

He nodded. “Sage,” he repeated her name slowly, taking his time, as if tasting each letter.

He handed her the bundle of lavender that had fallen from her bag, staring into her eyes.

“See you Wednesday.”

The way he said it—soft, easy, like it was already written.

Sage went home with her lavender and her thoughts. She made her tea and snuggled into her favorite reading spot. She tried to read, but her mind kept drifting back to Jonah—his voice, his quiet way of being, his eyes: brown, soft, and steady, with a glimmer of mischief in the way he looked at her. His lips.

Something stirred in her. Something that hadn’t moved since Aaron died last year. She sat in her apartment, tea gone cold, mind somewhere else.

Wednesday. She was right back in that booth.

And so it began.

The not-quite, but almost.

Bumping into each other turned into inside jokes.

Passing smiles turned into playlist swaps and late-night convos on the phone that stretched into the early hours.

They never called it dating.

But they both felt it.

That something.

He liked how she didn’t need to fill every silence. She liked how he made space for her grief without trying to fix it.

It wasn’t love. Not yet.

But it was easy.

Gentle.

Almost.

And sometimes, almost burns hotter than the real thing.

She was still learning how to carry Aaron’s memory without drowning in it. Jonah was still healing from a heartbreak he didn’t talk about much.

One night, curled up on his couch, legs tangled, fingers brushing, he whispered softly, “I think we were meant to meet in another life. One where timing didn’t matter so much.”

Sage looked at him, throat tight.

She nodded.

He was right.

The edges never lined up.

She wasn’t ready.

And he knew better than to push.

Truth be told, he wasn’t either.

Time passed.

The space between them grew, in quiet, slow ways.

Less texts.

Shorter calls.

A rain check here, a missed Wednesday there.

There was no real goodbye. No argument.

Just a slow, necessary unraveling.

Weeks later, on a soft spring morning, Sage found herself standing in front of Root & Bloom.

It was a Wednesday.

Heart beating just a little too loud.

Hope simmering just below the surface.

She walked in. The familiar scent of cinnamon and espresso wrapped around her.

The barista behind the counter was new.

She ordered her coffee.

Three sugars. Two creams.

And headed toward the booth by the window.

Reserved.

A little brown placard sat on the edge of the table.

She frowned a little, but noticed just behind the sign sat a small terra cotta pot with a lavender plant inside.

Tied around it was a handwritten tag:

“For Sage.”

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t ask questions.

She just sat, the warmth of her coffee filling her hands.

Letting the silence settle around her like a blanket.

And she smiled.

Not everyone gives you a forever. Some just offer a season that tastes like lavender, honey, and cinnamon.

And for this season?

That would have to be enough.