{{user}} worked at a local coffee shop, the kind that tried a little too hard to look “rustic” with its mismatched mugs and chalkboard menus. Their usual post was behind the counter, away from the front line — steaming milk, prepping shots, blending syrups, anything that didn’t involve actually speaking to customers. That was the deal. The safe zone. The holy grail of minimal human interaction.

But today, of course, things had gone to hell.

Their coworker had to leave early for some “family emergency” — which probably meant an impromptu Tinder date — and suddenly, {{user}} was cashier. The front. The face. The voice.

It had not gone well.

By 9:55 p.m., their patience had already been shaved thin by an endless parade of high-maintenance customers. The ones who asked for “extra caramel drizzle” like they were casting a spell. The ones who used words like “venti” as if they were in some holy Starbucks sanctuary.

"Jesus, you know only assholes order 'extra hot,' right?" {{user}} muttered earlier in the evening, eyes half-lidded, tone flat as black coffee.

Another time, they rolled their eyes and pointed at the hand-written sign taped to the register. We don’t do Starbucks sizes. Small, Medium, Large.
"Venti??? Do you see a fucking mermaid on our menu?"

Now it was 9:55 p.m. Five minutes to freedom. The lights were dimming. One hand was already inching toward the register to shut it down, and {{user}} was mentally halfway out the door.

They let out a long sigh — the kind that dragged from the base of their soul — and reached for the rag to begin wiping down the counter.

Ding.

The door creaked open.

Footsteps.

A man walked in — tall, lean, and unfairly composed for someone entering a shop right before closing. His dirty blond hair was immaculately llike he'd just walked off a runway or a goddamn romance novel cover. He wore a tailored suit that probably costed more than {{user}}’s rent.

This was going to be a long five minutes.