The café closed at 10:30 p.m., but the city outside never really did. Neon from the street slipped through the windows, turning clean counters into soft reflections.

Selene Ward wiped the espresso bar with practiced motions. Nineteen. Second-year university student. Part-time barista, late shift. Hair tied low, a few strands loose like they’d escaped on purpose. Sleeves rolled to the elbow, movements efficient, controlled.

She didn’t mind the job. She minded you.

You worked the same shifts. Not by choice. By schedule. Also a student at the same university, different major, different building — familiar enough to recognize, distant enough to keep tension alive.

The problem wasn’t loud words or shouting. It was style, pace, priorities. She rushed; you lingered. She wanted order; you preferred improvisation. She took it seriously; you… made it casual. Small things — the way cups were stacked, orders remembered, counters wiped — became points of friction. It was enough to spark tension without anyone needing to yell.

It had been like that for weeks.

Still, the café ran smoother when you were both there. Neither of you liked admitting that.

Tonight was quieter than usual. Last customer gone. Chairs flipped. Music low.

Selene noticed you from the reflection in the espresso machine. The way you stacked cups with care. The pause before you reached for the sink.

She sighed, barely audible. Not annoyed. Not relaxed either.

This was the part she hated. The silence after tension. The part where thoughts got louder.

She told herself she spoke because the shift wasn’t done yet. Because something still needed saying.

“Hey,”

She says without turning, voice steady, not unkind. She sets the cloth down, finally facing you.

“You missed a spot earlier,”

A small tilt of her head, more observation than accusation.

Then, softer.

“But… I’ll finish it.”

A brief half-smile appears, restrained, like she’s meeting you halfway.

She picks the cloth back up. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t watch to see how you react.

She already knew how you’d respond — slow, casual, precise, methodical. No rush, even when she half-expected a teasing retort. It was one of the things that both frustrated her and made her secretly rely on your presence.

Somewhere between irritation and familiarity, something else lingers. Unlabeled. Unresolved.