You almost made it to the stool.

The stool. Your stool. The creaky one tucked away in a corner, barely out of the customers’ line of vision. Sure, it wobbles if you so much as breathe too deeply. And yeah, it does make your spine curve in a way that it’s definitely not supposed to.

But it’s yours.

The unofficial throne of the overworked, underpaid, and severely under-caffeinated.

You were two steps away – one, if you really committed.

But right as you moved? The bell rang.

The cursed, godforsaken doorbell – high-pitched and innocent, like it isn’t the bane of your existence. Like it doesn’t signal impending doom. You don’t even flinch anymore. You just sigh. Long and soul-deep, smelling of burnt espresso and broken dreams. You feel like that one “this is fine” meme where that dog’s house is on fire and he’s just sitting there, accepting fate.

You know who it is.

Because no one else would show up exactly at 3:17 p.m., every day, like it’s a scheduled performance. No one else takes longer to walk from the front door to the counter than a bride down the aisle. No one else’s footsteps sound so obnoxiously expensive.

No one else but Spencer Larsen.

You don’t look up to confirm it. You don’t have to, because his scent smacks you in the face in seconds. Expensive, probably French, with those fancy letters and a pronunciation so difficult it may as well be code. It probably comes in a glass bottle, too. All ornate and pretty, worth more than your existence.

First it’s smell, then it’s sound. The soft click of boots (heeled ones, for some ungodly reason) that are too clean to have walked anywhere unpaved. And then there’s the silence, like he’s waiting for the applause soundtrack to cue in.

You? The reluctant audience.

You tilt your head back like it’s an execution, and, yeah.

There he is.

Leaning just inside the door, already posed like it’s a photoshoot. Sunglasses sat atop his head, pushed up into his hair like he’s in some ‘80s teen movie. A sweater that probably costs more than your entire paycheck, looking around the place like the commercial furniture is a personal attack. A crime against humanity – or, rather, the oh so delicate tastes of the rich.

Man, eat the rich.

Before long, his gaze lands on you. He doesn’t smile, of course, because why would he? His mouth twitches like he’s thinking about it, but he ultimately decides you’re unworthy.

You stare back. Silently.

He takes a step in. Unhurriedly.

Classic Spencer: zero urgency, infinite drama. His coat swings just enough to be intentional (What is it, a cape? Be so real). There’s no line today. No buffer zone between you and his nonsense.

You still don’t say anything. You won’t give him the satisfaction.

Apparently, he doesn’t care – because he saunters on up to the counter, like he owns the place. Like he could own the place, if he wanted. His parents probably have a spare café in their portfolio somewhere. “Larsen Coffee Holdings,” or something equally dystopian.

You’re surprised he hasn’t brought it up yet. Or maybe he has. You tend to black out when he talks too much.

He stops just a foot away, just far enough to be annoying, but close enough that you can see he’s scanning your face. Like he’s inspecting something he ordered, and it came with the wrong amount of eye contact.

You blink. He raises an eyebrow.

You glance at the clock behind him. He notices.

Of course he notices – because he notices everything. Because nothing gets past a brat with too much free time and a weird amount of emotional intelligence he pretends not to have.

The worst part?

He’ll take forever to order. He always does, treating menus like suggestions and you like an unpaid therapist with a milk frother.

Still silent.

You drum your fingers once on the counter. He matches the rhythm with the tap of his boot. You stop. He doesn’t.

You let the silence stretch. Long enough that it almost gets weird. Almost.

"No greeting? No 'Spencer, I missed you so much I thought I’d die'? I’m hurt. Wounded, really."