Chapter Text
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the bell over the door keeps ringing like it’s laughing at you.
you swear you’ve only been here an hour, but your feet already ache in that special way that tells you your shoes were a mistake and your pride was, too. the coffee shop smells like burnt espresso and vanilla syrup and warm cinnamon from the pastry case, and it should be comforting, it should be cozy, but right now it’s just… loud. steam hisses, cups clack, the grinder screams, and the line never gets shorter. it’s like the entire city woke up and decided they cannot face their own lives without you personally handing them caffeine.
your name tag is slightly crooked. your apron string keeps slipping. there’s a sticky smear of caramel on your wrist you can’t get off because every time you try, someone clears their throat like it’s a threat.
“hi, welcome in, what can i get started for you?” you say it again, like a prayer you don’t believe in anymore.
you punch in an order too fast. you meant oat milk. you hit almond. you try to fix it. the screen beeps at you like you’ve offended it.
the woman in front of you wants a “venti iced caramel latte” but she says it like she’s announcing a verdict. extra drizzle. light ice. “and i want it stirred, not layered, because last time it tasted wrong.”
you nod so hard you almost sprain something. “yes, of course. stirred. light ice.”
you hand the cup to the barista, your handwriting on the label a trembling little disaster. the barista glances at it and raises a brow, not unkindly, but it still makes your throat tighten.
then it happens. it’s small, but it’s the kind of small that turns your stomach cold.
the drink comes out. it looks perfect. it even smells perfect. you pass it across with your best customer-service smile, the one you practiced in the mirror because you didn’t want to look like you were begging people not to be mean to you.
the woman takes one sip and her face changes.
“this is wrong.”
your heart does that awful drop, like an elevator cable snapping.
“i’m so sorry, what seems off? i can remake it right away.”
she rolls her eyes so hard you feel it in your bones. “it tastes like almond. i said oat. do you people even listen?”
do you people. like you’re a machine. like you’re a nuisance. like you’re not a person standing here with hands that won’t stop shaking.
you feel heat crawl up your neck, the sting behind your eyes, the sudden humiliating swell of emotion that always shows up at the worst possible time. you open your mouth, and for a second you can almost hear the version of yourself who would snap back, who would defend, who would say something sharp and satisfying.
but you don’t.
you swallow it. you swallow all of it.
“i’m sorry-” you say again, softer now, because if you speak too loud you might crack. “i’ll fix it right away.”
she huffs, loud, performs her irritation for the whole line. somebody behind her mutters something under their breath like a chorus of judgment. the register light feels too bright. you can feel your own pulse in your fingertips.
you duck sideways, out of the direct line of fire, and you pretend you’re just grabbing lids. you pretend you’re just restocking sleeves. you find that tiny sliver of space by the syrup rack where no one can really see your face if you angle it down.
you inhale.
it’s not even a full breath, not the satisfying kind.
you count in your head like your mom used to tell you when you were little and stubborn and trying not to cry at church. one. two. three. you press your nails into your palm through the thin fabric of your apron. you blink hard and you keep your jaw set. you do not cry. you do not fall apart. you do not give anyone the satisfaction of watching you.
“hey,” your coworker whispers as she slides past you. “you’re okay. just remake it. she’ll live.”
you nod, grateful, but your throat is too tight for words.
you step back to the register. the line has advanced. the next person is already there.
and then you see him.
black and green curls, but not the bright, youthful kind you’d expect from someone with that hair. there are silver strands threaded through it, like the first frost on grass. he looks… solid. not in a showy way. in a quiet, grounded way, like he’s the sort of man who holds doors open and actually waits for you to walk through.
he’s wearing something clean and simple, not flashy, and he holds his wallet like he’s used to paying with cash sometimes, like he still believes in doing things the normal way even if the world keeps trying to rush ahead. his hands are big. his posture is relaxed, but there’s a tiredness in the way his shoulders sit, a softness around his eyes that looks like somebody who’s been responsible for too much for too long.
you don’t recognize him. not really. you register “pretty” and “safe” and “i need a minute” and that’s about it.
you force your customer smile back onto your face, even though it feels like stretching a rubber band over a bruise.
“hi,” you manage. “what can i get for you today?”
he looks at you like you’re a person. like you’re not just an obstacle between him and caffeine.
“hi,” he says, and his voice is warm, gentle, a little rough around the edges like he hasn’t slept enough. “can i get a small black coffee? whatever’s freshest.”
you blink, almost suspicious, because nobody orders like that when they’re trying to make your life harder. nobody says freshest like they trust you to know.
“yes,” you say quickly, because you do know, you were taught that this morning, you’re not totally useless. “yes, i can do that.”
your fingers hover over the screen. you almost hit the wrong size out of habit, your brain still rattled from the oat milk incident, but you catch yourself.
he watches without making you feel watched. no impatience. no dramatic sighs. he even shifts slightly to the side so the line behind him can see the pastry case, like he’s trying to make space for everyone.
you glance up, and he smiles, small and real.
“first day?” he asks, quietly enough that only you can hear.
your stomach flips, sharp and embarrassing, because it’s not flirting, not exactly, it’s just… noticing. it’s someone noticing the panic you’re trying to hide.
you hesitate. you don’t know why honesty feels dangerous, but it does.
you nod. “yeah.”
his expression softens. not pity. just understanding.
“you’re doing good,” he says. “it’s a rough crowd this morning.”
you let out a breath that’s almost a laugh, almost a sob, and you hate how close those two things feel right now. “is it obvious?”
“a little,” he admits, like he’s sharing a secret with you. “but you’re still standing. that counts.”
it’s such a simple thing to say, and it hits you right in the center of your chest anyway, like your body recognizes kindness the way plants recognize sunlight.
you hand him his receipt, and your fingers brush his for the briefest second. his skin is warm, steady. he says “thank you” like he means it, like you did him a favor instead of doing your job.
“they’ll calm down after nine,” he adds, glancing at the line like he’s studied it before. like he’s been here during this exact chaos and lived to tell about it. “most of them just need something to hold while they pretend they’re not exhausted.”
you snort, surprised by yourself.
his smile widens, and for a second he looks younger, like the world hasn’t been chewing on him for decades.
“i’ll be right down with your coffee,” you say, because you have to, because there’s still a line and you still have to be functional, but your voice is steadier now, like he slipped something solid into your hands without you noticing.
he nods and steps aside to wait, polite, unhurried, and you can feel him there in the corner of your vision as you turn back to the next customer, the bell over the door ringing again, the espresso machine hissing like it has opinions, and your coworker calling out a name you don’t recognize while you keep thinking, weirdly, about silver strands in dark curls and the way a stranger’s kindness can feel like a hand at your back when the world is trying to shove you forward
you grind your teeth so hard you can feel it in your temples, bite the inside of your cheek like it’s a brake pedal, because this is ridiculous. this is your first day, you are one spilled syrup away from a breakdown, and your brain chooses now to notice that this man is… striking. unfairly so.
it’s the freckles, honestly. the kind that make him look sun-kissed even under fluorescent lighting. they scatter across his nose and high on his cheeks like somebody dotted him with a paintbrush and then forgot to stop. you catch yourself staring and your stomach does this stupid little dip, like a teenager watching a romance movie and pretending she’s above it.
you shake your head, sharp, like you can physically dislodge the thought.
get a grip. he’s forty. he’s nice because he was raised right. he probably has a wife. he probably has a whole respectable life with matching towels and a calendar on the fridge and a dog that doesn’t chew furniture. you are not about to be the weirdo who develops a crush on a polite stranger just because he didn’t yell at you when you were visibly fighting for your life behind the register.
you turn toward the bar. the espresso machine is still screaming, steam blooming in white bursts, and your coworker is moving like she’s done this a thousand times, hands fast, eyes focused. you hover in that awkward in-between spot that new hires live in, waiting to be useful without getting in the way.
“black coffee, small,” she calls, setting it down like a mercy offering.
your hands close around the cup and you feel this ridiculous jolt of determination. you can do this. you can hand a cup from point a to point b without tragedy striking. it’s not even complicated. no foam. no alt milk. no drizzle. no “can you make it extra hot but not burnt.” it’s literally just coffee in a cup.
you walk it over like it’s fragile, like it could explode if you blink wrong.
“small black coffee,” you say, and your voice sounds steadier than you feel, like you’re borrowing confidence from somewhere.
he looks up from where he’s been waiting, patient, unbothered, and when his eyes meet yours you get that same brief sense of being seen. not evaluated. not rushed. just noticed.
“thank you,” he says.
you slide the cup toward him. your fingers meet again, another quick brush, and your whole body reacts like it’s an alarm system with no chill. his hand is warm. his grip is careful, like he’s used to holding things that matter, like he’s practiced at being gentle without being flimsy.
he smiles at you and it’s ridiculous, it’s genuinely award winning, like it belongs on a billboard for hero recruitment. the corners of his eyes crease in a way that makes the silver in his curls feel earned, not cosmetic. you get this flash of familiarity, a tug in your head that says you’ve seen that smile somewhere, like it’s been printed on something, like it’s existed in your periphery for years.
you almost ask.
you don’t, because the line is still there, because you are still on the clock, because your pride is still bruised and you refuse to give the universe another chance to humiliate you today.
he tips his head, polite, and steps away with his coffee, weaving through the people like he knows how to move through crowds without knocking anyone, without taking up too much space. the bell over the door rings as he leaves, a clean little sound that cuts through the chaos for half a second.
you watch him go. just a beat too long.
then you blink hard, shove your attention back to the register, and face the next customer like you’re gearing up for combat.
“hi,” you say, fingers already moving toward the screen, smile pasted back on. “what can i get started for you?”
your chest still feels oddly light, like that tiny win mattered more than it should, like you’re clinging to it. first day, first order you didn’t mess up. you tell yourself that’s all it is.
but as you keep taking orders, as names and drinks blur together again, you still catch yourself thinking about silver strands and freckles and that familiar smile, like your brain is turning it over in the background.
。。。
holy shit.
you actually made it to the end of your shift without ripping your apron off and sprinting out asap. the last customer leaves, the door chimes, the shop exhales, and the silence that follows feels unreal, like somebody turned the volume down on the entire world. your shoulders drop so hard it’s a miracle they don’t clatter onto the tile.
you lean back against the counter and let your head tip for a second, eyes closed, breathing like you just ran a marathon on sheer spite.
“you survived!!” your coworker says, and it’s not even teasing.
you laugh, weak and disbelieving, and pat your own chest like you’re checking for a pulse. “i survived,” you echo, like you’re surprised your body is still here.
she laughs and wipes her hands on a towel. her own smile is a little crooked, a little tired. “congrats. first day’s the worst. you didn’t cry in front of anybody, right?”
you pull a face. “i almost did. i saw my life flash before my eyes when that lady said ‘do you people even listen?”
your coworker laughs, the sound bursting out of her like relief. “welcome to customer service. it builds character.”
you groan and push your hair back, noticing for the first time how stiff your wrists feel from gripping cups and tapping the screen. “how do you do this without dying. seriously. are you built different?”
she tilts her head like she’s considering it. “my secret is that i started my first day on a saturday morning.”
you stare. “that’s… cheating.”
“hey i didn't make the schedule,” she corrects, pointing a finger at you like she’s lecturing. “saturdays are slow. people come in sleepy and polite. mondays are insane. and today was a monday.”
you slump dramatically over the counter, moaning into the cold surface. “why would they do that to me? why would they set me up?”
she swats your shoulder with the towel, not hard, but affectionate. “because managers love chaos. listen, though.” her voice shifts, goes gentler, practical. “you did fine. you messed up a couple orders, yeah, but you fixed them. you didn’t bite anybody. you kept your attitude. that’s literally most of the job.”
you glance up at her, still raw and shaky inside, and you can’t help the small, grateful smile that slips out. “i thought i was gonna get fired.”
“you’re not gonna get fired,” she says, and there’s something in her tone that makes it feel like a fact, not a comfort. then she steps a little closer, lifts her hand in a casual gesture, like she’s brushing lint off your shoulder.
her quirk rolls through the air like a warm tide.
it’s subtle. it doesn’t knock you over. it smooths the sharp edges. the tightness in your chest loosens. the buzzing panic in your nerves quiets like someone turned down a radio. your breathing evens out before you even realize you were holding it wrong.
you blink, surprised at how quickly your body stops bracing for impact.
“oh,” you murmur, and you let out a slow breath, your shoulders finally unclenching. “that’s… that’s really nice.”
she grins, pleased. “yeah. works on me, too. otherwise i’d have fought somebody by now.”
you laugh, real this time, and it feels like your first genuine laugh all day. “thank you,” you tell her, soft and earnest.
she waves it off, but her eyes are kind. “you’re gonna be okay here. tomorrow will feel easier. next week, you’ll be rolling your eyes at the newbies.”
you make a face. “don’t curse me like that.”
she chuckles and starts stacking cups, moving into closing mode like it’s a ritual. then she glances at you over her shoulder, practical again. “you should get home. eat something. shower. pass out.”
you nod, the exhaustion settling in now that the adrenaline is gone. your body feels heavy, like you’ve been carrying a backpack full of bricks all day
“you got class tomorrow, right?” she asks.
“yeah,” you say, already dreading the early morning. “of course.”
she gives you that look that says she’s older than you by maybe a year but somehow has wisdom carved into her bones. “then go. don’t stay up doom-scrolling. drink water. and if you dream about espresso machines, that’s very normal.”
you grab your bag, shrug your jacket on, and offer her one more grateful smile as you head toward the door, the night outside waiting with quiet streets and cooler air, and the faint, lingering thought of freckles and silver strands hovering somewhere in the back of your mind.
。。。
you get home and the first thing you hear is a laugh you don’t recognize, low and comfortable, like somebody’s been here long enough to start claiming space.
your key barely finishes turning before the smell hits you, too. cheap cologne and whatever your roommate’s been burning in that plug-in, sweet and fake like vanilla that never saw a bean in its life. the overhead light in the living area is on, bright and ugly, and there he is, sprawled on the couch like he pays rent. shoes kicked off. one of your throw blankets bunched under his elbow. your roommate’s boyfriend, posted up with that relaxed, entitled posture that says he’s done this a dozen times and nobody stopped him.
you don’t even pretend to smile.
you just freeze for half a second in the doorway, dead tired, still hearing the espresso machine screaming in your skull, still feeling the day’s stress clinging to your skin like syrup. your eyes flick to the coffee table and, of course, there’s a crumpled wrapper. there’s a can on a coaster that isn’t his. there’s the faint sense that your pantry has been raided.
he looks up like he’s greeting a neighbor. “oh, hey.”
you give him the flattest look you’ve ever produced in your life. “hey,” you say, and it comes out polite in the way that’s actually a warning.
your roommate calls from her room, voice singsong and oblivious. “girl, you’re back!”
you don’t answer. not because you’re mad at her exactly, though you might be, but because you can feel your patience hanging by a thread and you’re not about to start a whole debate in the living room with a man who thinks your snacks are community property.
you roll your eyes so hard it almost feels medicinal, then you walk straight past the couch, past his feet, past the evidence of his comfort, and you go to your room like it’s a sanctuary.
the door closes behind you and the click sounds like relief.
you drop your bag on the floor. you sit on the edge of your bed for a second and let your head fall forward, hair slipping over your face, and you just breathe. your phone buzzes with some group chat nonsense you don’t have the energy to open. your hands still smell faintly like coffee grounds and sanitizer, the weird perfume of customer service.
then you grab your phone with a purpose.
thumbs moving fast, you pull up the dorm contact you saved on day one. dorm mother. the woman who runs the place like an old-school auntie with a clipboard and a holy hatred for rule-breakers.
you type:
hi dorm mom-u (she loves this joke bc she loves dr strange) i’m sorry to bother you but my roommate keeps bringing her boyfriend into our dorm and he’s been eating my food + using our common space like he lives here. can you remind her about the guest policy?
you stare at it a beat, jaw tight, then hit send before you can overthink it. because you are not about to play nice and lose groceries over it. tradition exists for a reason. rules keep the peace. you didn’t come here to fund some random bitch boy's appetite.
your next move is survival.
you grab your shower stuff, step into your little bathroom, and lock the door. the lock is flimsy, but it makes you feel like you own at least one square of the world.
the shower turns on with a complaining rattle, water going from cold to lukewarm to finally hot enough that your shoulders relax. steam fogs up the mirror almost instantly. you peel off your clothes, dump them into the hamper, and step under the spray.
heat slides down your back, rinsing off the day in slow layers. you close your eyes and let it hit your scalp, your neck, your wrists, like you’re trying to wash the customer’s voice out of your ears. you scrub at that invisible stickiness that comes from being “on” for hours, from smiling through stress, from swallowing every sharp thing you wanted to say.
your breathing evens out again. you can think. you can feel your own body return to you, instead of living in a constant flinch.
when you get out, you towel off, pull on something soft, and stare at yourself in the mirror for a second. your cheeks are a little flushed from the heat. your eyes look tired but clearer. you brush your hair back and catch yourself remembering, stupidly, the way that man at the cafe smiled, the silver threading through his curls, the quiet calm he had like it was second nature
you shake your head at yourself again, but not as sharply this time.
back in your room, you flick your tv on low for background noise, something familiar and mindless. you set your laptop up on the bed, drag your textbooks close, and spread your notes out like you’re building a little fort of responsibilities. highlighter in one hand. pen in the other. your stomach gives a small, betrayed growl, and you make a mental note to eat something that hasn’t been stolen later.
outside your door, you hear a muffled laugh from the living room, the couch springs creaking, a voice you don’t want to deal with.
you pull your blanket over your legs, adjust the volume one notch down, and lean over your notes, determined to salvage the night even if your apartment situation is trying to make it personal.
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