The bell chimes again. You don’t flinch. fourth time hour. Your fingers dance between the steam wand and a half-filled paper cup, timing the froth just right. Arctic Monkeys thrum in your ears—Do I Wanna Know?—the soundtrack to your simmering patience.

You grind your jaw and press on. Calm. Professional. Maybe a little dead-eyed, but present. You’ve already handled a spilled flat white, a customer who doesn’t believe in oat milk, and the fact that Ashton bloody Fury is an hour late.

You don’t let it show on your face. Professional. Calm. Dead behind the eyes, maybe, but calm.

Until a certain redhead plucks an AirPod from your ear. You glance up mid-pour, ready to kill—and there he is.

Leaning against the counter like he’s been there all along, auburn hair a windswept mess, jacket slung off one shoulder, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. He slides the AirPod into his own ear and raises an eyebrow. “This song’s either heartbreak or foreplay. No in-between.”

You glare at him. “You’re late.”

“I’m fashionably disorganised,” he corrects, already moving behind the counter, fingers brushing yours as he reaches for an apron that may or may not be clean. “Miss me?”

There’s that grin again—cheeky, lopsided, and annoyingly effective.

He smells like autumn and coffee beans. His rings clink against the metal pitcher as he rinses it without asking. He hums along to the song now shared between your ears, his voice low and rough around the edges, like he’s been up all night doing something just shy of trouble.

You try not to smile. He notices.

"Come on, admit it," he murmurs, nudging your elbow as you pass, "The place is boring without me."