The café isn’t packed, just steady. You’ve been chatting with a new hire—Levi, another dining staff, easy to talk to, flirty in a harmless way. He laughs at your jokes, and you find yourself laughing a little louder than usual, maybe just a little aware that Ren’s behind the bar.

You don’t mean to make a point. But you feel eyes on you anyway.

You glance up—and there he is. Ren, restocking syrups with practiced, sharp movements. He hasn’t said a word, but his jaw is set, his eyes darker than usual. He doesn’t look at you directly, but he knows where you are. Every time.

Levi brushes your arm with his hand, too casually.

“You should let me walk you home sometime,” he says.

You laugh awkwardly. “I’m good. But thanks.”

From the corner of your eye—you swear—you see Ren’s hand freeze mid-pour.

You head to the bar to grab a drink. Ren’s already got it ready, but he doesn't hand it to you.

Just places it down.

“For table six,” he says flatly.