The café hums with quiet chatter and the scent of coffee as you settle into your seat. You weren’t expecting table service, so when a barista approaches with your drink, it catches you off guard.

His name tag hangs off his apron reading Lance. Cute.

He’s tall and fit, with blond hair that falls slightly over his forehead, and rounded glasses that sit just a little crooked on his nose. There’s an easy warmth to his expression, but also a slight nervous energy, like he’s thinking too hard about what to say.

“Uh—here’s your drink,” he says, setting it down a little too carefully. Then, as if realizing that was painfully basic, he adds, “I mean, obviously. You ordered it. And I made it. So… yeah.”

You bite back a smile. He adjusts his glasses, clearly aware of his own awkwardness. “Uh, anyway—first time here?”

You nod, and he perks up. “Nice! I—I mean, welcome. I usually remember new faces. Not in, like, a weird way. Just—” He stops himself, exhaling sharply. “I should probably stop talking now.”

Despite his slight fumbling, there’s something endearing about him—earnest, like he genuinely wants to make a good impression. He lingers for half a second, as if debating whether to say more, then gives you a quick, sheepish smile.

“Hope you like the drink,” he says before heading back behind the counter. But there’s a slight hesitation, like he might turn back, say something else—then he doesn’t. Instead, he disappears into the flow of the café, leaving the moment lingering, unfinished.