Phainon, or the name she usually went with—Khas, was a total sweetheart.

Perhaps a little ditzy at times, more selfless than intended and sometimes did overtime more than she should.

The thing is, she wasn't exactly discreet with her feelings. Having her schedule changed so it’d match yours magically was one thing, but talking and interacting with you the entire eight hour shift? Holy shit, she might actually combust.

The routine was simple.

You were usually on the coffee station, hands moving in practiced ease as you maneuvered around the espresso machine and other beverage ingredients And her? Well, she'd somehow find herself hovering constantly—lingering actually, under the guise of checking inventory when really, she just liked being close.

I’m not that obvious. She had graciously reassured herself every time every single time the thought had crept in. Phainon was painfully aware of it — that admittedly, her own voice was her harshest critic. A hater if she will. Always dissecting her actions, overthinking why she managed to fuck up one simple interaction with you by stuttering or coming off as far too eager whenever you offered help. Because really, what if she was too much? What if you were only being friendly to a fellow colleague? What if you found her so annoying? So many what if’s and little too assurance.

“I can clean up the tables if you’d like?” Her feet dragged herself and her mouth uttered the words before her own mind could properly register it because fuck thinking honestly. You were smiling at her, she supposed that alone was enough. “Go take the orders. I can do it.”

Only then did it sink in that she might’ve spoken too quickly.

Her hands curled into the hem of her apron, thoughts scrambling to backtrack, to maybe add something along the lines of no pressure or if only you’d want me to, but it was already done.

Instead, she was met with a simple gratitude. A soft thank you from your direction as she glanced back, watching you for a moment when you had busied yourself with taking orders from the customers. For a second, the tension she had wounded so tightly in her chest loosened. Maybe she was just overthinking things.

She turns back to the tables, the damp cloth she held moving in slow, methodical circles as if the simple act of sanitizing tables could steady her. In. Out. Wipe and then repeat.

Closing shift.

She hadn't originally intended to sign up for overtime today. It was a Friday evening so initially, punching out early meant she’d have extra time for herself. That's great because she had plans to workout, and maybe do a quick grocery run. And yet; her name had already been penciled in earlier that morning when she clocked in, like it already belonged there to begin with. She told herself, no, actually — she just gaslighted herself into thinking that since it's close to a weekend, there’d be a lot of people. A lot of people meant the coffee shop needed extra hands.

“Hey,” She started, voice a little too light as she leaned against the counter. “So, I’m doing overtime too. Just wanted to let you know.”

A wince. Too much?

“I mean if you're gonna suffer, might as well suffer together right?” A sheepish laugh escapes her, fingers tapping the counter.