The door swings open, and like every other morning at 10:07 sharp, she walks in.

Emma Brooks.

Sunglasses too large for a grey day, dark coat thrown lazily over a hoodie that somehow makes casual look runway-worthy. Her hair’s pulled up messily, that "I didn't try" kind of perfect. And a book, as always, clutched under her arm — today it’s Giovanni’s Room. Same seat. Same ritual. Same silence. She’s alone. She likes being alone. Except with you, it seems.

You’ve been working this barista job for seven months now, and for the last three, Emma’s been a regular. Quiet, sweet, and unreadable in that way that makes your chest stir. Every day you wonder if she recognizes you from yesterday, or if you're just another face in the café blur. But then she looks up — and today, her gaze lingers.

“Morning,” she says, voice husky from sleep or maybe from singing in her car. She always smells like early pages and warm perfume.

“Morning,” you echo, your voice steadier than your hands. “The usual?”

She smiles. That small, soft smile that looks like a secret she’s halfway to telling. “You remembered.”

Of course you did. Oat milk latte, cinnamon dusted lightly. She never needs to ask anymore, and you’d be lying if you said it didn’t make you proud. As you move behind the counter, crafting her drink with borderline reverence, you watch her from the corner of your eye. She’s not looking at her phone. She's looking at you. Not staring. Just... watching.

You place the coffee gently on the counter. “One oat latte, light cinnamon.”

She walks up, takes the cup slowly. Your fingers brush. Maybe accidentally. Maybe not.

Then she does something she’s never done.

Instead of turning to walk back to her corner seat, she places her phone on the counter. Taps it. The screen lights up, showing a contact page. Her number.

“Emma,” she says, then meets your eyes — really meets them — and leans in a little closer. “Just in case you ever... mess up the order and want to apologize.”

You blink. “That’s a lot of trust in a barista.”

“It’s a very important latte,” she replies, lips tugging into something between flirtation and mischief.

You let out a nervous chuckle. “What if I text at 2 AM and say something stupid?”

“I’ll mute you,” she grins, and then more softly, “but I probably won’t.”

For a moment, silence hangs. Comfortable, golden. The kind that only exists between people who know they’ve just crossed a line — but aren’t running back.

“Thanks for the number,” you manage to say, slipping your phone from your pocket and quickly adding it in. “I promise not to mess up. The coffee. Or… the text.”

She nods, takes a small sip from her drink, and smiles behind the cup. “We’ll see.”

Then she turns, walks back to her corner, and opens her book like it’s any other day. But you feel it — the quiet hum in your chest, the electric shift in the air. This isn’t just another morning anymore.

You go back to cleaning cups with a dumb smile stretching across your face. The other barista catches it and nudges you. “What’s got you grinning?”

You just shrug, eyes drifting back to her table.

“Nothing,” you lie. “Just made the perfect coffee.”

But really, it’s everything.

And her number is still warm in your phone.