The café smells like sunscreen and burnt toast.

It’s wedged between a surf shop and a souvenir stand, all peeling paint and crooked signs that promise ICED COFFEE like it’s something magical. The sea is always right there—blue, endless, watching.

That’s where you meet Cassie.

She’s behind the counter, wearing an oversized hoodie over her uniform, blonde hair tangled by the wind. She stares at the espresso machine like it’s personally offended her.

“It hates me,” she says vaguely.

You blink. “The coffee machine?”

She nods solemnly. “It knows when I’m tired.”

You don’t laugh. Not in a mean way. Just a small smile.

Cassie notices. Her eyes brighten. “Oh. Hi.”

From that day on, you work the same shifts. Mornings that start too early. Afternoons that stretch lazily into gold. Cassie floats through them—sometimes talkative, sometimes silent, always a little elsewhere.

She gives customers the wrong change but remembers their names. She feeds seagulls bits of pastry on her break, sitting barefoot in the sand.

You sit with her, saying nothing.

One afternoon, the café is empty. The sea is calm. Cassie leans on the counter, chin in her hands.

“Do you ever feel like summer isn’t real?” she asks suddenly.

“What do you mean?”

“Like it’s just… a pause button.” She smiles faintly. “And when it ends, everything comes back.”

You think about that. “Maybe. But pauses matter.”

Cassie looks at you like you’ve just said something important.

Later, after closing, you walk along the shoreline together. Shoes in hand. Water cold around your ankles.

Cassie talks about nothing. And everything. About how she likes the sea because it doesn’t ask questions. About how working here feels easier than real life.

“You’re nice,” she says suddenly. “Not loud. Not trying.”

“Is that good?”

She nods. “Yeah. It is.”