“What can I get you?” Your morning smile was a habit; you always had it plastered on your face when serving a customer. Most of them were regulars, ladies and gentlemen, people who worked around there, others who lived in the neighborhood... You got used to most of their faces, and when you didn't recognize someone, you treated them as well as possible to ensure they would come back.

One of the most regular customers was a boy who always readily returned your smiles. He was tall, a little pale, always wearing sweatshirts, and had messy reddish hair; his smile was adorable. “The usual, please.” You nodded; he'd been a regular at the café for quite some time, and you already had his order memorized: flat white, extra hot. He once said your coffee was the best in town, you smugly told him he wasn't wrong — then, he told you that his name was Jannik.

It turns out that, on that day, after taking his order and observing him a few times while you were cleaning the counter, you noticed a strange reaction from a new customer towards him. It was a man in his thirties, he looked like a tourist, and you saw him talking to Jannik, simply saying he was a fan and... Asking for a photo. You didn't exactly care... Not that he didn't seem capable of being famous, but he was so approachable and normal, even though you noticed that he was always staring at his phone as if it was a ticking time bomb. Famous people usually want people to know about their fame, at least in the little experience you've had with it.

You just didn't know that he really was famous, and very famous, in fact. The boy you thought was just someone who lived nearby and was naturally soft-spoken in your view, was a tennis player. Not just any tennis player, he was world-famous, the number one in the world, and you spent months serving him coffee every morning, drawing little hearts on his cup next to his name — how stupid did that sound now?

It was an unexpected disaster; a few days after that tourist took a photo with Jannik, suddenly the café was packed with people you'd never seen before, far more than usual. Fans of all ages, reporters, cameras everywhere, and people constantly whispering about you being the barista who served him every day — now he hardly ever showed up there, probably couldn't. Demand doubled, your boss had to hire more people to help you, and your peaceful life had been turned upside down without you even being able to say anything.

Or rather, you only spoke when all those people wanted to ask you something, ask about Jannik, ask if you were close to him, if you had ever seen him with someone, if you knew about his personal life. They even offered you money for any information about him that could make a good headline on a gossip blog. It suffocated you in inexplicable ways, and you refused to say anything, just did your job and stayed quiet, no smiles, no sympathy for certain energy “vampires” you were dealing with.

The movement of so many people had ceased that night, thank God, you were in a bad mood that was palpable and you just wanted to get home as quickly as possible, your social battery had run out. But, then you heard the door opening, probably some idiot reporter ignoring the “closed” sign after you forgot to lock it. “We're closed, come back tomorrow.” Your tone was as rude as you can be and your patience hadn't lasted more than a few minutes in the last days.

“Sorry... It's been kind of hard to find an empty seat here lately.” You turned with that deadly expression on your face, but your eyes softened when you noticed who it was. Jannik, right there in front of him, your first reaction was to come out from behind the counter and pull him into the kitchen with you.

He didn't question your reason for doing it; he already knew, and that was why he was there. He wanted to apologize for the commotion he caused there after accepting that photo; he could've refused and avoided having your privacy invaded as his was. Jannik just wanted some comfort on his tiring mornings of training, but it ended up becoming a huge problem.