Track 01: Brown Sugar Hours
Welcome to In Rotation: The Love Series presented by Honey Blossom Press.
This summer, we’re sharing short stories that feel like your favorite love songs… intentional, soulful, and rooted in something real. Brown Sugar Hours is the first track. It begins with a quiet crush, a slow pour, and two people figuring out what it means to return to someone before you’ve even left.
You can listen to this week’s story, narrated by the incredible Wesleigh Siobhan, or read it below in full.
As always…
Stay for the story. Come back for the next one.
There’s no rush. You’re right on time.
Side A: Press Play & Listen
Side B: Curl Up & Read
Track 01: Brown Sugar Hours
The first time he came in, he ordered a hot Americano at noon in the middle of July. That’s how I knew he wasn’t from here.
Not that tourists don’t wander into Black Bean all the time—H Street has changed enough in the last decade that even locals use GPS to find parking. But something about him felt specific. Intentional. His voice had that tired silk to it, like he hadn’t fully woken up or hadn’t fully gone to sleep. He wore a brown shirt. Darker than his skin but not by much. When he said thank you, he looked me in the eye.
He didn’t flirt. But he didn’t not flirt.
That was three Tuesdays ago.
Since then, he’s been back four times. Always late morning. Always orders hot. Always sits near the window, reading something on his phone with wired headphones in. Not the Bluetooth kind. The cord kind. One time I caught a bit of the audio when he bent over to tie his shoe—definitely some old soul cut. Curtis Mayfield or Gil Scott-Heron. Something with intention.
He never lingers long. Leaves a good tip. Nods goodbye.
So today, when he walks in and says, “Surprise me,” I nearly drop the syrup bottle I’m restocking.
“Is this a test?” I ask, sliding the bottle onto the back counter.
“It’s a Tuesday,” he says, “and I’ve been predictable.”
I narrow my eyes. “And now you want to be a mystery?”
He shrugs, then flashes a half-smile. “Now I want to see what you’d pick for me.”
I glance at the menu board, then back at him. “You trust me?”
“With caffeine? Yeah.”
I don’t smile until I turn away, hiding behind the espresso machine. I pull two shots, pour oat milk, and add a swirl of brown sugar cinnamon syrup. Then I ice it—because no sane person drinks hot coffee in this heat—and top it with a sprinkle of nutmeg.
“Try it,” I say, setting it down.
He takes a sip, then pauses. Looks at the cup like it spoke to him.
“What is this?”
“Brown sugar iced oat latte with nutmeg,” I say. “You look like a nutmeg person.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It’s a vibe.”
He grins. “This is incredible.”
I shrug like it’s nothing, though my cheeks warm a little. “It’s what I do.”
He nods toward the name tag I forgot I was wearing. “You always this confident, Naima?”
“Only when I’m right.”
He stays longer this time. Doesn’t sit by the window—chooses the corner seat near the book exchange shelf instead. He has a leather journal he scribbles into between sips. I sneak glances from the counter, pretending to tidy up pastry trays. I’m not proud of it. Okay, maybe a little.
When he finally packs up to leave, he stops by again.
“I’m Musa, by the way.”
“I figured it was something poetic.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That right?”
“Yeah. You have jazz hands.”
He laughs. “I’ve never heard that one.”
“It means you move slow. Thoughtful. Like your fingers are always looking for something to play.”
He tilts his head. “You always read people this way?”
“Only when I’m curious.”
“Then I hope you stay curious.”
He walks out after that. Leaves the cup, leaves a tip, leaves me with a strange, unshakable warmth I don’t have a name for.
The next time he comes in, he brings a record.
Not a request. A gift.
“Found this at Byrdland,” he says. “Thought you might like it.”
He sets it on the counter. Minnie Riperton’s Perfect Angel.
“You’re giving me Minnie?”
“Technically I’m giving you the copy I had in college. Upgraded my setup recently.”
I run my finger along the cover. “You don’t even know my music taste.”
“I’m guessing. You strike me as someone who already knows every lyric to ‘Take a Little Trip.’”
I raise a brow. “You trying to make me fall in love with you?”
He leans in a little. “Is it working?”
I don't answer out loud.
Over the next few weeks, we settle into a flow.
He comes in every few days. I surprise him with a new drink each time. Lavender matcha with honey. Iced espresso with orange peel. One time, a caramel cold brew float. He tells me he’s a night person, hosts a late-night show on local radio. “Low-power FM, which just means it reaches like, two apartment buildings and a Wawa.”
I tune in one night. He opens with Roy Ayers. Reads a poem by Lucille Clifton. Talks about joy like it’s a muscle you have to stretch. Then plays a voicemail from a listener who wanted to dedicate Sade’s “Kiss of Life” to her husband of 30 years. His voice is calm. Patient. Like he knows how to sit with silence.
I fall asleep listening. Dream in yellow.
The first time we hang out outside the café, it’s accidental.
I’m leaving a block party on 8th and H. My sandals are squeaking from spilled sangria, and I’m still sticky from the heat. He’s walking out of the corner store with a bottle of Topo Chico and a sleeve of ginger chews.
“You always look this surprised to see me?” he asks.
“Only when I look like I got attacked by a fruit cart.”
He offers me a chew. I take one. We sit on the curb and talk until my legs fall asleep.
He tells me his dad was a jazz drummer. That he learned patience by watching him tune his kit before gigs.
I tell him my grandmother used to braid my hair on Sundays and that she always said, “Don’t go falling in love with men who don’t read.”
He says, “Well, good thing I read.”
I say, “You’re already flirting.”
He says, “You’re already smiling.”
I stay smiling.
Weeks pass.
The café runs slower in August, but Musa keeps showing up. Sometimes with poems. Sometimes with vinyl. Sometimes with nothing but quiet.
One day he doesn’t come in at all.
Then two days.
Then four.
I tell myself it’s not a thing. That he’s busy. That I’m not entitled to anyone’s rhythm.
But I check my phone more than usual. I play his show and he’s not on air.
By day six, I’m in a mood. No amount of brown sugar oat lattes can fix it. I’m halfway through wiping down the counter when the door chimes.
He walks in with flowers.
“Before you say anything,” he says, “I owe you context.”
We sit in the corner.
Turns out his dad had a health scare. Musa flew home to check in. Said he meant to call me but didn’t want to explain it in a text.
“He’s okay,” he says. “Stubborn, but okay.”
“I’m glad,” I say. “And I’m sorry.”
“I missed your drinks,” he says. “And your jazz hands theories.”
I laugh. “I figured I said something wrong.”
“You didn’t. You were what I wanted to come back to.”
He puts the flowers on the table between us. Sunflowers. Bold and gentle at the same time.
“I’m not in a rush,” he says. “But I’d like to take you out. For real. If you’re open.”
I think of my grandmother. Of the way she hummed when she liked a thing before she spoke it.
I hum.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m open.”
-
This one’s for the ones who kept showing up, even when they didn’t know what to say. For quiet coffees, shared glances, and the slow return of something that never fully left.
Filed under: window seats, second chances, and the way memory softens when it’s finally safe to come back.
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“Brown Sugar” – D’Angelo
“Take a Little Trip” – Minnie Riperton
“Makings of You” – Curtis Mayfield
“Say Yes” – Floetry
“Come Over” – Faith Evans
“Funny How Time Flies (When You’re Having Fun)” – Janet Jackson
“Love’s In Need of Love Today” – Stevie Wonder
“BALDWIN” – Jamila Woods feat. Nico Segal
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Watch: Sylvie’s Love (2020)
This is a story about timing. About love that lingers, softens, and shows up again. Older, wiser, but still true. Like Brown Sugar Hours, Sylvie’s Love is tender and romantic, filled with quiet tension, shared music, and moments that stretch out like long summer evenings. It doesn’t rush. It simmers.
If you ever wondered what happens when two people find their way back, this is it.
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Every track in In Rotation comes with a moment just for you.
This week, we invite you to do something soft and simple. Pour your favorite drink. Light a candle that smells like memory. Play the playlist. Then do one thing that makes you feel cared for… by you.
No pressure. Just presence.
Because love stories include you, too.
Thanks for being here. Your seat’s saved for the next one.
With love and softness,
Your fam at Honey Blossom Press
© 2025 Honey Blossom Press. All rights reserved.
