For When Hot Chocolate Is As Intoxicating As Irish Whiskey

Posted on Sun Sep 28th, 2025 @ 1:35pm by Desmond Greene & Maeve MacKenna

2,027 words; about a 10 minute read

Mission: Episode 7: Pathogens and Contagions
Location: The Grind Stone Café
Timeline: Late March 1992 — Saturday, late afternoon

The Grind Stone cafe was a relaxed little coffee house. It was situated in an old mansion from around when Salem was founded. Its walls were exposed brickwork, the floors were the original hardwood floors, and the counter looked like they dragged it out of an old haberdashery. It was set up roomy, tables were spread out so that you had some measure of privacy. The seating varied from small two-person round tables with comfortable kitchen-table chairs to a long table with bench seating at both sides. In the front were two groups of sofa's set up in a U-shape around a coffee table. The floors were covered in old Persian rugs.

To Desmond's eyes the Grind Stone felt homey, comfortable. As he opened the door he felt as if he was not just welcome, he was expected and maybe a little late. He had opened and stepped in, holding the door for Maeve. The doorbell chimed pleasantly, and the eyes of the barista behind the bar turned to them. Desmond steeled himself for a moment as she frowned at him, but then her eyebrows turned up, as did the corners of her mouth. "Welcome to the Grind Stone." she chirped cheerily.

Maeve stepped in under his arm and let the warmth hit her—coffee, sugar, old wood. “This is tidy,” she murmured, eyes flicking over brick and rugs. “Smells like someone’s gran lives in the walls.”

She tipped her chin at the pastry case, then at him with a small grin. “Right, you do your mad marshmallow–caramel science. I’ll sort snacks.”

At the counter she leaned in, breath fogging the glass. “Could I get that brownie slab—aye, the indecent one—and the big cinnamon bun, please? We’re splittin’.” She slid a fistful of quarters over with a sheepish smile. “Independent woman of means.”

When the plates landed, she lifted a hand toward him—just a small wave, this way. She’d claimed a two-top by the window, back to the wall, view of the door. Scarf off, headband shoved into a pocket, she tore the bun cleanly in half and set a piece on the far plate for him.

Desmond had explained his drinks to the cute barista behind the bar. He had noticed she was pretty in an academic sense. In the past his eyes would've stolen a few glances at her. But after he placed his order, two large mugs of hot chocolate with a bunch of toppings on the side, his eyes drifted back at the other pretty girl.

Big red hair, small build, and a cute nose. He had a thing for red heads, sure. But with Maeve, the first thing that had drawn him to her was her smart tongue. She had talked circles around him, and he noticed he didn't mind. The barista clicked a large serving tray in front of him. As he was pulled from his reverie, he saw she noticed his line of sight. Her smile turned into a smirk, having read Desmond like a book. "Enjoy your date."

As he looked over, her gaze lingered on the clean line of his shirt in the lamplight; the knot in her chest eased a notch. “Corner spot,” she said when he drew near, voice low and pleased. “Less draught, good for secrets. Also, easier to pretend we’re very sophisticated while drinkin’ cocoa.”

She nudged his plate across, softer now. “Sit with me.” A beat, the ghost of a smile appearing.

He sat the tray down, the spoons rattling against the dishes. The rapid tinkling of the metal or ceramic did not outpace his nervous heart beating an insane drumbeat. And he didn't even have a heart in the regular sense!

"I didn't think we had any significant secrets to keep." Desmond replied in a faux-whisper as he sat down. He was careful to not accidentally push any of the nailed-down furniture out of place. "Unless you mean the mutant conspiracy to take over the world?"

Maeve’s mouth tipped sly. She leaned in like they were plotting treason and slid a napkin between them, uncapping one of the tiny chocolate-syrup packets like a pen.

“Aye, the grand conspiracy,” she whispered back. “Phase One: secure cocoa.” She dot-dotted a circle. “Phase Two: overthrow local government via cinnamon.” Another dot. “Phase Three: establish benevolent pastry-based regime. Code word… marshmallow.”

She glanced up through her lashes, softening. “Reckon the world’ll fall faster if you keep handin’ me that grin.” She pushed a mug toward him, spooned a ridiculous drift of cream on top of her own, and nudged the brownie plate to the middle. “Right, co-conspirator. On your signal.”

"With this brownie, I declare our world conquest a go." He stage-whispered, a grand sweep of his arm and brownie. He gave a wink as he did, barely avoiding the elderly lady stepping along side them. He promptly retracted the arm, looking like an embarrassed puppy as he muttered a mouth-full "Sorry ma'am." at the woman.

The elderly lady, for her part, had figured out in the flash of a moment these two kids were on a date. She just smiled indulgently at Desmond's accidental antics. "That's quite alright young man. You two enjoy your date."

The word date had a magnetic effect on Desmond. His eyes locked on Maeve's, and boggled. His mind was occupied with that word and his mouth went dry. Words came out a bit raspy after he fought to swallow the brownie. "This is a date... Right?" Dark green cheeks signaled his blushing bashfulness.

Maeve’s eyes flicked up, wide for a beat—then she smiled, slow and sure. She reached across and wrapped her fingers around his, thumb tracing a small circle on his wrist.

“Aye, it’s a date,” she said, soft as a secret. “You asked. I said yes. Been wantin’ to say yes for ages, if we’re tellin’ truths.”

She shifted her chair a little closer, knee nudging his under the table. “So you can stop panickin’, big lad. I’m exactly where I want to be—with you, cocoa, and a disgrace of a brownie.”

Her grin turned fond. “You look unreal in that shirt, by the way. Makes the whole world-domination plan feel very achievable.” She lifted her mug in a tiny toast. “To our grand conspiracy… and to us.”

Desmond made a final swallow that had nothing to do with the brownie he ate but hadn't tasted. His hand felt hot as her hand rested on it. He gave her a goofy grin, all teeth and puppy dog enthusiasm. "May we be benevolent rulers." He agreed, and clanked his mug against hers a little too enthusiastic. Cocoa sloshed over both rims, making their 'warplan' into a moist napkin.

He looked at it, and shrugged with a more playful expression. "I suppose this means our plans did not survive contact with the enemy?"

Maeve brushed a drip off the napkin with the edge of her sleeve and smiled. “Alright—no plotting. Just… us.”

She let the joke settle, then tipped her head, softer. “Alright—no schemes. Just… you and me.” A beat. “Can I ask you something not-stupid?”

She fiddled with her spoon, eyes on the swirl of cream. “Why today?” The question was light, not a demand—more curious than anything. “I’m glad, just… wondered what tipped it.”

Her knee nudged his under the table, easy again. “And if you don’t want to start with that—tell me a daft thing about you I don’t know. Favourite cereal. First cassette. Weirdest job you’ve ever had. I’ll trade you one for one.”

Desmond grabbed his cocoa, taking a swallow of the piping hot liquid festooned with whipped cream and caramel drizzle. It didn't hurt, but he knew from experience that if didn't give it proper time to cool people tended to freak out. But he needed a moment, he needed to stall. 'Why today?' An excellent question. He answered her question with a shrug as he spoke. "No idea. Wanted to ask you out for weeks, I finally gathered the courage, ya know?" His smile turned a bit lopsided, a goofy smile. "Girls are scary, scarier than Sentinels."

Maeve snorted into her mug, nearly choking on cream. “Scarier than Sentinels? Jaysus, Des—what d’you think I’m gonna do, have the ground swallow ye up if you picked the wrong café?”

She grinned over her mug, cream on her lip she didn’t bother to wipe. “And anyway, you did grand. Cocoa, sugar, no one trying to murder us—pretty much my dream brief.” Her knee nudged his under the table, light and deliberate. “Girls aren’t scarier than Sentinels. We’re just… complicated. You’ll live.”

A beat, softer. “Truth? I was waiting on you to ask. Thought you’d never get there.” She squeezed his fingers once. “So—good timing, big lad.”

"Girls are way scarier than Sentinels!" Desmond protested with enthusiasm and a grin. His eyes sparkled as he felt her knee against his. Another spot of warmth exchanged between them. "But yeah." His hand ran through his pine-needle hair before it came back to meet its opposite wrapped around the hot cocoa. "Wasn't quite sure I was going to get there either."

His gaze disappeared down the brown, creamy drink as he lapsed into a silence, contemplating the situation. It was only a moment, maybe five heartbeats. "I was worried you'd say no. Like, I was pretty sure you'd say yes. But you never know." His goofy smile returned as his eyes found hers again. "So why did you say yes?"

Maeve tilted her head, the corner of her mouth quirking as though he’d just asked the daftest question in the world. She let it hang a second, spoon idly chasing a swirl in her mug.

“Why’d I say yes?” she echoed, then leaned in, green eyes catching the lamplight. “Because it’s you, Des. You make me laugh when I don’t want to, you never treat me like glass, and—” she gave a small shrug, almost shy for once—“I feel good round you. Simple as.”

Her hand slipped over his again, firmer this time, no teasing in it. “Don’t get a big head, mind. You’re still a daft eejit half the time.” A grin broke through the softness, crooked and warm. “But you’re my eejit. That’s why.”

Desmond nodded at her calling him an idiot. It was true, he was when she was around him. "You're not wrong about that. I am a blockhead." And for emphasis he rapped his knuckles against his head, the sound of wood on wood clear as day. He grinned at his own joke, and moved his hand to the large cinnamon roll.

He tore the large pillow of doughy goodness in two, filling squishing out from where he squeezed too hard. One piece he put on a napkin while he slid the much larger piece over to Maeve. He sucked the bits off filling off his hand and nodded in appreciation. He quickly followed that up with a bite of the roll. "That's gooooood." His enjoyment expressed through silly elongation of letters.

Maeve broke off another piece of the cinnamon roll and shook her head with a grin. “If the cocoa doesn’t finish me, this bun will,” she murmured, brushing sugar from her fingers.

She leaned back in her chair, letting the café’s warmth seep into her bones. For the first time in what felt like forever, her shoulders eased, the world outside kept at bay by brick walls, lamplight, and the simple company across the table.

Her gaze lingered on him a moment longer, smile softening. “This… this is good,” she said quietly, as though naming it too loud might break it. Then she lifted her mug and took another slow sip, letting the sweetness settle.

Outside, the late afternoon sun slid lower, shadows stretching across the old Persian rugs as the Grind Stone’s soft hum carried on.

Fade

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