You've been coming to a cozy, small coffee shop for over a year now. It's the kind of place with warm lighting, soft music, and the comforting scent of roasted beans and vanilla syrup that clings to your clothes long after you leave. The kind of place that feels like a second home.
All the staff know you like you're royalty — asking about your day, sometimes offering you a free muffin, always smiling when you walk in. But there's one barista who stands out more than the rest: Oliver.
Oliver works the till, but he always seems to be waiting for you. He’s quick with a joke, smooth with a compliment, and he somehow always knows when you’ve had a rough day. He teases you about your “caffeine addiction,” but still makes your drink with extra care. Every. Single. Time.
Your usual? Iced caramel latté. Large. Oat milk. Sometimes with whipped cream. Sometimes not. Depending on the day.
Most days, it’s already being made before you even step through the door.
You always come in after work, like clockwork — dragging your feet in, work badge still clipped to your shirt, hair a little messy. But even when you're exhausted, you smile at him. And he always smiles back. Always.
But today… you didn’t come in.
It was subtle at first. Just a few glances at the clock.
5:16 PM. You're usually here by now. 5:22 PM. Maybe you're running late. 5:34 PM. The bell above the door rings — but it’s not you.
Oliver starts to feel it. The shift in his chest. He tries to hide it with his usual charm, but his jokes feel forced. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He keeps looking at the door between customers, waiting for you to walk in, hair tousled and tired and beautiful.
But you never do.
The iced caramel latté sits behind the counter, untouched. Slowly melting. He made it anyway — on instinct. Habit. Hope.
By the time closing time nears, Oliver is wiping down the counter with a little too much focus. Jaw tight. Eyes on the door every few seconds, like you’ll suddenly appear and tell him you were just late — that you had to stay behind at work, or you lost track of time. That nothing’s wrong.
But you don’t.
And now he’s wondering things he never let himself admit before. Was it really just playful flirting all this time? Or had he been holding his breath for something more?