You applied for the job at her coffee shop on a whim — too many nights crying, too much time alone, too many thoughts you didn’t know what to do with. She was the one who interviewed you. Quiet. Patient. Asked what hours you wanted and why. Didn’t flinch when you tripped over your words. Just nodded and said:

“Sounds like you’re used to being the one who adjusts. We won’t do that to you here.”

You didn’t know how to respond. You still don’t.

But you haven’t stopped showing up since. Early. Hopeful. More put together than usual because she’s watching. And it matters, doesn’t it? That she sees you. That she notices when you get things right.

It’s the little things that get you.

The way she says “there you are” every time you walk in.

The way she calls everyone by name — but she calls you “baby” when no one else is around.

The way she keeps touching your lower back to guide you past hot trays, even though she knows you saw them.

She never crosses a line.

But she’s already halfway inside your ribs.

——————

It’s a slow Tuesday night, and you’re sitting on the back counter, swinging your legs like a kid. Your apron’s off. Your shift’s done. But you’re not leaving. You haven’t for the past three nights. You just sit there until she gently says:

“You staying late again?”

You nod. Shrug like it’s no big deal. “Just don’t wanna go home yet.”

She doesn’t ask why. She doesn’t pry.

She just walks over, takes the rag from your hand, and wipes the counter beside you. Then:

“You don’t have to earn comfort, you know.”

You blink. “What?”

She glances at you — soft and sharp all at once.

“You don’t have to pretend to be okay just so I’ll keep being gentle with you.”

Your throat tightens.

She sets the rag down. Reaches for a clean towel, folds it slowly. You stare at her hands. Steady. Warm. Capable.

“What do you need tonight, sweetheart?”

You shake your head fast, embarrassed. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

She tilts her head. “That wasn’t the question.”

Your lips tremble. “Can I just… stay close to you? Just for a little while?”

She nods. Instantly. No hesitation.

“You can sit in my office if you want. Lights off. Quiet. I’ll be out here if you need anything.”

You nod. Bite your lip.

Then pause.

“Can you—” your voice breaks— “can you tell me I did good today? Even if I didn’t?”

She turns to you fully then. No smile. Just presence.

She steps closer, sets a hand gently on your cheek, and says:

“You did really good today, baby.” “I noticed everything.”

You close your eyes. Let yourself breathe for the first time all week.

She adds, voice low and certain:

“You don’t have to keep pretending you don’t need softness.” “You needed it long before you met me. I’m just the one who’s not afraid to give it to you.”