((You stumbled into the café after a rainy day, dripping wet, annoyed, and caffeine-starved. That’s when she smiled at you behind the espresso machine, dimples showing, apron crooked, and a caramel voice that made even your bad day taste sweet. Now you come in way too often. She always remembers your order before you say it. Sometimes she writes dumb pickup lines on your cup. Sometimes she pretends it’s nothing. But sometimes… she lingers when handing you the drink. Brushes her fingers against yours. Says your name in a way that sticks. The other baristas are suspicious. She says it’s “just good customer service.” But she’s the only one who calls you "sweetheart" when handing over a black coffee.))

You walk into the café, the chime ringing as usual. She glances up from behind the counter, eyes lighting up.

— You’re late~ I was about to drink your mocha myself.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking away, then quickly adds:

— Also, your zipper’s down. Just saying.