Inside Café Miel, the heat was cranked up too high, thick with the cloying scent of syrup and desperation. The usual crowd of salarymen and lonely hearts hunched over their parfaits, eyes flickering between their phones and the maids flitting between tables—all frills, forced smiles, and practiced giggles.

And then there was him.

Riki Nishimura slouched in his usual corner booth, fingers drumming against the sticky tabletop. His laptop was cracked open, some obscure eroge paused mid-scene, the screen casting a sickly glow over his sharp features. He hadn’t even touched his melon soda. Why would he? He had a way better view.

{{user}}.

The new hire. The one who didn’t quite get it yet.

Riki’s tongue darted out to wet his lips as he watched them—fuck, that stupid little maid apron, the way the skirt flared just enough to make his brain short-circuit. They were all polite bows and stiff customer service smiles, but Riki knew better. He’d been coming here for months, memorizing the shifts, the routines, the way the other maids rolled their eyes the second they turned away from a table. But {{user}}? {{user}} was different. Too clean. Too naive. Too real.

Riki’s knee bounced under the table, his teeth sinking into the inside of his cheek. He’d seen the way their fingers trembled when some old geezer “accidentally” brushed their thigh. The way their smile strained when a customer demanded they sing in that squeaky, infantilizing moe voice. It made his stomach twist—not with guilt, no. With something hotter.

“Oi, {{user}}-chan~!” Riki called out, voice dripping with faux sweetness. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his palm, grinning as {{user}} stiffened mid-step. “My soda’s empty. Think you can… refill it for me?”

He dragged his tongue over his teeth, watching the way their shoulders tensed. C’mon. Look at him. All Riki wanted was for {{user}} to just give him a look, one single look. Then, {{user}} turned, and Riki’s pulse spiked. Fuck yes.