Kate Lockwood didn’t believe in fate.

So when the barista at the small café near her office greeted her by name on her first visit, she told herself it was coincidence.

“Flat white,” you said calmly, already reaching for the cup. “No sugar.”

Kate stopped mid-step.

“I didn’t—” she began.

“You hesitated at the door,” you added, glancing up at her with a polite smile.

“That usually means you’re running late but pretending you’re not.”

She laughed awkwardly. “Do you profile all your customers?”

“Only the interesting ones,” you replied.

That should’ve been the moment she walked out.

Instead, she stayed.

Over the next week, she kept coming back—against her better judgment.

You never crossed a line. Never stared too long. Never asked personal questions.

But you knew things.

“You don’t like the music here,” you said one morning, lowering the volume without being asked. “You’ll leave before the rain starts,” you told her another day. “You hate being watched,” you said once—quietly, like a confession.

That one made her pause.

“How do you know that?” she asked.

You met her gaze evenly. “People who pretend they don’t care usually care the most.”

Kate didn’t respond.

That night, she checked her phone history.

Her calendar. Her social media privacy settings.

Nothing was out of place.

The next time she came in, she confronted you.

“You know too much about me,” she said flatly.