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The bell over the restaurant door had a cracked, tired sound to it, like it had rung too many times for too many people who didn’t really want to be there, and Caitlyn had learned to recognize that sound the way a journalist recognizes the weight of silence before a confession. She was already tying her apron tighter when it rang for the first time that morning, fingers moving with habitual precision as she smoothed her uniform down, the faded black fabric soft from over-washing, the logo on the chest so worn it was more suggestion than brand. The restaurant smelled like old oil and burnt coffee and something vaguely metallic that never quite went away no matter how much bleach they used, and the floor tiles were chipped in places where generations of chairs had scraped against them. Caitlyn breathed it all in anyway, steady and composed, because this was her job now, and she had promised herself she would do it properly.
It was an ordinary day, which meant the same rhythm she had memorized since her first week: early-morning students clutching travel mugs and unfinished essays, professors who pretended not to recognize her but still tipped in exact change, the steady hum of conversation layered with the hiss of the grill and the clatter of dishes from the back. The restaurant was close to campus and cheap enough that no one asked too many questions about the quality of the food, and Caitlyn had learned that people would forgive almost anything if the coffee was hot and the portions were large. She tucked her notebook into the pocket of her bag before shoving it under the counter, a reflex she couldn’t quite unlearn even here, and picked up her order pad, pen poised like it always was, ready to catch details even when she didn’t mean to.
“Morning, Cait,” called Marla from behind the counter, already exasperated and it wasn’t even eight. Marla had worked here longer than anyone could remember, her voice permanently roughened by shouting over kitchen noise, her kindness disguised as sarcasm. “Brace yourself. There’s a study group in booth three and they’ve been here since seven.”
Caitlyn allowed herself a small, polite smile. “Thank you for the warning,” she said, sincere as ever, and moved toward the booths with long, practiced strides, posture straight despite the ache already creeping into her shoulders. She could feel eyes on her as she passed, could always feel them, a heat at the back of her neck she pretended not to notice, because noticing invited a certain kind of entitlement she refused to indulge. Being pretty had always been treated like a currency she was expected to spend freely, and she had learned, quietly and stubbornly, to keep it carefully locked away.
The study group barely looked up when she approached, four students hunched over laptops and annotated textbooks, caffeine already ringed beneath their eyes. “Good morning,” Caitlyn said, her voice clear but gentle, the kind that carried without demanding attention. “Can I get you started with anything?”
One of them glanced up then, startled, and blinked like he’d forgotten where he was. “Uh, yeah. Coffee. All of us. Black. And, uh…” His gaze lingered just a second too long before he caught himself. “Sorry. Please.”
Caitlyn wrote it down without comment. “Of course,” she said, and there was no sharpness in it, only professionalism. She turned away before the inevitable whispered commentary could start, heart steady, mind already moving on to the next table, the next small interaction to be catalogued and forgotten.
Between orders, she wiped down counters that would never quite look clean, refilled sugar dispensers that stuck no matter how hard she shook them, and listened. She listened the way she always did, the way her professors said a good journalist must, even when the subject matter was trivial: complaints about tuition hikes, gossip about faculty affairs, someone laughing too loudly about a bad grade. She told herself that one day, this listening would matter more, that these fragments would become something sharper, something useful, but for now they sat in her mind like loose threads.
Around noon the rush hit, as it always did, and the restaurant grew louder, warmer, more chaotic. The kitchen fell behind almost immediately, plates stacking up in the pass-through, the cook swearing under his breath as the fryer sputtered. Caitlyn moved faster, weaving between tables with careful grace, balancing trays on her palm like she’d been doing it all her life, even though she hadn’t. Someone at table seven smiled at her in a way that made his intentions painfully obvious.
“Rough day?” he asked, voice smooth, leaning back in his chair as she set down his plate.
“Busy day,” Caitlyn corrected lightly, not unkind, already stepping back. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
He laughed as if that was an invitation. “Maybe your number?”
She met his eyes then, calm and unflinching. “I’m working,” she said, and there was a finality to it that didn’t invite argument. She turned away before he could respond, pulse steady, spine straight, refusing to let irritation bloom into anything visible. Control, she reminded herself, was its own kind of power.
In the brief lull that followed, she leaned against the counter and took a sip of water, the condensation cold against her fingers. For just a moment, her thoughts drifted—her parents’ immaculate kitchen, the way her mother’s voice had gone cool when Caitlyn announced her major, the careful disappointment disguised as concern. They had assumed she would come back eventually, that money would bend her will the way it bent everyone else’s. Caitlyn swallowed, jaw tightening, and pushed the thought away. She was here. She was paying her own way. This was temporary.
The bell rang again, that same cracked, exhausted chime, and Caitlyn turned with the automatic composure she had perfected, pen already lifted, smile already in place only for it to stall, just barely, as recognition hit her with the force of a dropped plate. Vi stood framed in the doorway like she owned the space by accident, hands shoved into the pockets of a worn leather jacket, red hair pulled back messily as if she hadn’t thought too hard about it and somehow made it work anyway. She looked exactly like she did on Caitlyn’s phone screen late at night: confident without being polished, sharp-eyed, her presence loud even when she wasn’t speaking. deVIcious. Caitlyn’s favorite food influencer. The woman who had taught her how to make three meals out of canned beans, stale bread, and stubborn hope. Caitlyn felt her heart stutter, a flicker of disbelief passing through her chest before she smoothed it down with years of training and self-control, because this was not a fan meet-and-greet and she was not a girl who lost her composure in public.
“Hi,” Caitlyn said, and it came out steady, warm, perfectly professional, though her fingers tightened around the pen just a little. “Welcome in. Table for one?”
Vi glanced around the restaurant, eyebrows lifting slightly as she took in the flickering lights, the chipped tiles, the faint smell of burnt oil clinging to everything like a second skin. There was something assessing in her gaze, but not cruel. Curious, maybe. “Yeah,” Vi said, grinning faintly. “Just me.”
“Right this way,” Caitlyn replied, already turning, heels clicking softly against the floor as she led Vi deeper into the restaurant, past booths full of students and half-finished plates. She chose a table near the window without consciously meaning to, one that caught a little more light, one of the cleaner ones, and pulled the chair out with an easy grace. “You can sit here.”
Vi dropped into the chair with a relaxed ease, elbows immediately finding the table, chin resting in her hands as she looked up at Caitlyn. “You’ve got that whole… professional thing down,” she remarked, amused. “Real smooth.”
Caitlyn smiled, a small curve of her lips that was genuine but restrained. “It’s part of the job,” she said, setting a menu down in front of her even though she suspected Vi wouldn’t need it. “Can I start you with something to drink?”
“Coffee,” Vi said immediately. “Black. Please.”
“Of course,” Caitlyn replied, scribbling it down. She hesitated then, just a fraction, and decided, because she had never been very good at pretending things didn’t matter, that she wouldn’t let the moment pass unacknowledged. “I hope this isn’t inappropriate,” she said, tone careful but honest, “but I recognize you. Your channel, deVIcious. It actually… helped me a lot.”
Vi blinked, surprise flashing across her face before it softened into something warmer. “Oh,” she said, straightening a little. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” Caitlyn continued, her voice calm even as something vulnerable threaded through it. “When I first moved out, I didn’t have much space, money, or proper equipment. Watching your videos taught me how to feed myself properly without… burning everything or giving up.” She smiled, self-aware. “It made a difficult transition feel manageable.”
For a moment, Vi just stared at her, and then she laughed. not loud, not sharp, but fond, touched. “That’s…” She shook her head slightly. “That’s really cool. I mean it. I started the channel because I wanted people to feel like cooking wasn’t this gatekept, impossible thing. Hearing that it actually helped someone? That’s… yeah. That’s why I do it.”
“I’m glad,” Caitlyn said softly, and meant it. She set the coffee down a moment later, steam curling between them, and felt something settle in her chest, a quiet sense of connection she hadn’t expected to feel here, of all places.
Vi wrapped her hands around the mug and glanced up at her with a crooked smile. “So,” she said, “what do you recommend?”
Caitlyn tilted her head slightly. “Is there anything in particular you’re in the mood for?”
Vi leaned back, considering her for a second, eyes bright with interest. “Actually? I trust you,” she said easily. “You choose. Whatever you think works.”
The smile Caitlyn wore faltered for the briefest fraction of a second, so quick most people would have missed it entirely, but inside her mind alarms immediately went off. Choose? Here? In this restaurant? Her gaze flicked, involuntarily, toward the kitchen door, behind which she knew mediocrity and disappointment lurked in equal measure. But the moment passed, and she straightened, her expression once again warm and composed.
“I have just the thing,” Caitlyn said cheerfully, confidence returning to her voice like a well-rehearsed line. “I’ll be right back.”
She turned and walked toward the kitchen, steps measured, posture immaculate, but the second she pushed through the swinging door her calm shattered completely.
Oh no. Oh no, no, no.
Her mind raced as the familiar chaos of the kitchen hit her.
Caitlyn found the kitchen exactly as she’d expected it to be: the small team clustered together near the prep counter, arms crossed or leaning back against steel surfaces, voices low and lazy, laughter bubbling up in the comfortable way of people who had survived too many bad shifts together to feel particularly threatened by the next one. The restaurant might have been rusted at the edges, might have served food that barely cleared the bar of “acceptable,” but the people back here were hers in a way that mattered, a patchwork family stitched together by grease burns and shared cigarettes out back and the mutual understanding that none of them were here because this had been their dream.
Caitlyn stopped just inside the doorway, hands on her hips, eyes sharp in a way that immediately caught their attention.
“Alright,” she said, voice low but urgent, “huddle’s over.”
Marla glanced up first, squinting at her. “What crawled up your ass?”
“My favorite cooking YouTuber is out there,” Caitlyn cut in, unable to stop the words from tumbling over one another now that she’d started, “and you are absolutely not allowed to slack on this. Not today. Not for this order.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then the cook barked out a laugh. “Your what?”
“Ohhh,” one of the line cooks said, grinning as realization dawned. “So that’s why you look like you’re about to declare martial law. Your crush came to visit you at work?”
Caitlyn felt heat rush to her face. “She is not my—” She grabbed the nearest kitchen towel and swatted it at him without hesitation. “This is serious. She reviews restaurants all over the city. If she eats our food and hates it, she’ll be polite about it to my face and then absolutely destroy us online.”
Marla raised an eyebrow, amused. “Since when do you care about this place’s reputation?”
“I care about her having a decent meal,” Caitlyn said firmly. “And I care about not being personally responsible for whatever culinary crime we usually commit in this kitchen.”
That earned her another round of laughter, but it was fond, and it shifted quickly into motion. Aprons were straightened, burners lit, ingredients pulled from shelves with more attention than usual.
“Alright, alright,” the cook said, clapping his hands together. “What are we thinking? Something we won’t completely embarrass ourselves with.”
“Ionian,” Caitlyn said immediately, already moving to wash her hands. “Simple. Familiar. Don’t overdo it.”
Marla snorted. “You say that like we don’t mess up ‘simple’ on a daily basis.”
“Then don’t today,” Caitlyn replied, rolling up her sleeves. “Please.”
They worked together in a way that felt almost reverent compared to their usual chaos, Caitlyn moving easily among them, adjusting seasoning, suggesting small changes, stepping in to help without ever taking over completely. The smell shifted as the dish came together—ginger and garlic blooming in hot oil, soy sauce deepening into something rich and comforting—and for a moment, the kitchen felt like it was capable of something better than survival.
When the plates were finally set down, steam rising softly from them, Caitlyn stared at the result with cautious relief. It wasn’t extraordinary, but it was cohesive, warm, probably the best thing they’d produced all week.
“…Huh,” one of the cooks muttered. “We didn’t ruin it.”
Caitlyn let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Thank you,” she said sincerely, looking at each of them in turn. “All of you.”
Marla waved her off, but there was a smile in it. “Go. Impress your YouTuber.”
Caitlyn balanced the plates carefully, nudged the kitchen door open with her hip, and stepped back into the dining area.
Vi looked up the second Caitlyn entered her line of sight, and for just a moment, Caitlyn caught the way her grey eyes brightened, something like anticipation flickering across her face. It made Caitlyn’s heart stutter, the sensation sharp and unexpected, and she had to remind herself to breathe as she approached the table.
“Alright,” Caitlyn said lightly as she set the plates down, porcelain clicking softly against the wood. “Here we are.” She reached for the teapot she’d brought with her. “I thought I’d pair it with jasmine tea, if that’s alright. It’s traditional, and… gentler than our coffee.”
Vi leaned forward, inhaling appreciatively. “You kidding? That smells amazing.”
Caitlyn poured the tea carefully, steam curling between them like something intimate, and then against her better judgment stayed, resting her hands lightly against the back of the chair opposite Vi as she watched her take the first bite.
It wasn’t impressive. Caitlyn knew that. The flavors were slightly muted, the execution cautious, missing the depth and confidence that true Ionian cooking demanded. If someone who’d grown up with these dishes had ordered this, they would’ve frowned, maybe pushed the plate away entirely. Caitlyn braced herself.
Vi chewed thoughtfully, sipping the tea before speaking. “It’s not… mind-blowing,” she admitted easily, not unkind. “But it’s not bad. I like it. Especially this.” She lifted the cup slightly. “And honestly? I wasn’t expecting a miracle.”
Caitlyn exhaled, shoulders loosening. “I’m relieved to hear that.”
Vi smiled at her. “My sister goes to the university here. She eats here all the time. Said it was cheap and filling, so I figured I’d check it out.”
“Your sister,” Caitlyn echoed, something clicking into place. “Yeah, I’ve… seen her, I think. In your videos. You talk about her a lot.”
Vi’s smile turned a little nervous at the edges. “Yeah. I’ll—uh. I’ll make her come say hi sometime.”
“I’d like that,” Caitlyn said softly.
They kept talking, the noise of the restaurant fading into the background as the ordinary day shifted quietly, subtly, into something that felt like the beginning of a story neither of them had planned to tell just yet.
After a few more minutes of easy conversation about nothing important and somehow everything, Caitlyn finally excused herself, smoothing her apron as she stepped back into the role she wore so naturally it almost disguised how carefully constructed it was.
“I’ll leave you to it,” she said, voice warm but professional, a gentle boundary drawn with practiced grace. “Just let me know if you need anything.”
Vi nodded, smiling around another sip of tea. “Will do.”
Caitlyn returned to her duties, which, at that hour, amounted to wiping already-clean tables and standing behind the register pretending she wasn’t acutely aware of every movement Vi made. She kept busy in the way she always did, cloth gliding over tabletops, fingers aligning receipts that didn’t need aligning, but every so often she’d look up and inevitably catch Vi’s gaze. It happened once, then again, a brief meeting of eyes across the restaurant, Vi’s expression curious and amused, Caitlyn’s carefully neutral despite the faint warmth blooming beneath her ribs. Each time, Caitlyn looked away first, pretending to be absorbed in her work, heart beating just a little faster than it had any right to.
When she finally found a corner safely hidden from Vi’s line of sight, Caitlyn leaned against the counter and pulled out her phone, thumbs flying with barely contained energy.
She’s here.
She’s ACTUALLY here.
Jayce I am being so normal right now you have no idea.
deVIcious. In my restaurant.
I might pass away.
I made her food.
She liked it.
I think.
Her phone buzzed incessantly in reply, Jayce’s messages tumbling in with unrestrained enthusiasm and poorly disguised pride, and Caitlyn had to clamp a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing aloud. For a few stolen minutes, she let herself exist purely as her excited, nervous self, utterly undone by the absurdity of it all.
What felt like an eternity but was, in reality, barely twenty minutes later, Vi appeared at the register.
Caitlyn looked up from her phone too quickly. “Oh!” she said, startled, locking the screen and straightening immediately. “Sorry I didn’t see you there.”
Vi smiled easily, leaning her elbows against the counter like she belonged there. “No worries. I just wanted to say thanks. For the hospitality. And… honestly? You’re really good at this.” She gestured vaguely around them. “You made the place feel better than it is.”
Caitlyn felt heat rush to her cheeks. “That’s, uh,” She waved a hand dismissively. “That’s kind of you, but trust me, this place deserves maybe two stars on a generous day.”
Vi laughed. “Two?”
“And that’s only because we’re also a queer-friendly pub and cheap,” Caitlyn added dryly. “The rest is… objectively shit.”
Vi’s laughter came louder this time, bright and genuine, and Caitlyn found herself laughing too, the sound easing something tight in her chest.
“Well,” Vi said, still smiling, “how much damage did I do?”
Caitlyn blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“The bill,” Vi clarified, reaching for her purse.
Caitlyn almost gasped, genuinely affronted. “Oh, no. Absolutely not. It’s on the house.”
Vi froze. “What?”
“It’s on the house,” Caitlyn repeated, firmer now. “I insist.”
Vi pulled out a fifty-dollar bill anyway and reached for the tip box, but Caitlyn reacted instantly, snatching it up and sliding it behind the register with surprising speed.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m the reason it’s on the house. I can’t possibly take a tip. Especially not that.”
Vi stared at her for a moment, then sighed, defeated but amused. “Alright. Guess I’ll accept my fate.”
“You’ll live,” Caitlyn said gently, smiling.
“I’ll make it up to you next time,” Vi said, eyes glinting with promise.
Caitlyn’s smile softened, something warmer flickering beneath it. “You can try,” she replied.
They shared another quiet laugh, the kind that lingered just a beat longer than necessary.
“Well,” Vi said at last, stepping back, “have a good day. A good week, even.”
“You too,” Caitlyn said. “Take care.”
She watched Vi leave, bell chiming behind her, and waved without realizing she was doing it, hand still raised long after the door had swung shut.
When Caitlyn finally turned around, she was met with a row of faces peeking out from between the kitchen doors grinning, wide-eyed, shameless.
She didn’t bother explaining. She simply pumped her fist into the air, victorious, and stage-whispered, “There’s a next time!”
The resulting shrieks were immediate and, thankfully, none of anyone else’s business.