The café was supposed to be nothing special. Just a part-time job to pay for gas and iced coffees, to waste away summer evenings in an apron that smelled permanently like espresso. But then Walker Scobell started working there.

And suddenly, closing shifts felt like the highlight of your week.

At first, you thought it was funny. Of all people, a movie star showing up with messy curls, fumbling with the register like every other new hire. He tied his apron crooked, made terrible cappuccinos, and acted smug about the dumbest things—like stacking cups faster than you. But the longer you worked side by side, the harder it was to remind yourself he wasn’t just a normal boy. Because here, he was.

He’d tease you for over-frothing milk, and you’d roll your eyes, telling him he wasn’t half as charming as he thought. But then his smile would linger a beat too long, or his hand would brush yours when you reached for the same cup, and your chest would feel too tight. “You’ve been hosting parties in my mind, I’m working overtime to have you in my world.”

So you stayed late. Again and again. Pretending you had to wipe down tables or restock syrups, when really you just wanted to sit across from him after close, sharing greasy fries and laughing until the night felt endless.

And if anyone noticed how much you lingered? You didn’t care.

The truth was, you were gone for him. Completely. ”Oh, what a curse it is to be a lover girl.”

But what you didn’t realize was that he was just as far gone for you.

Walker had taken the job to feel normal. No cameras, no interviews, no noise. Just a boy behind a counter. He hadn’t expected you—the girl who didn’t treat him like a celebrity, who teased him, rolled her eyes at him, shoved fries into his mouth mid-sentence. You made him laugh harder than he had in months. You made him feel… seen.

And God, he noticed everything. The way you tucked your sleeve over your hand when you got nervous. The way you always offered to cover shifts if you knew he had auditions. The way you sat across from him like you had nowhere better to be. He told himself not to look too long, not to think too hard—but every night he still ended up replaying your smile in his head.

Sometimes, when the café was quiet and the hum of the machines filled the air, he’d catch himself staring, wondering if you knew. Wondering if you felt it too.

Tonight was no different. Closing shift, again. The two of you ended up outside on the curb, sharing a box of fries. The parking lot was empty, the night air cool.

“You ever think this place would be boring without me?” you teased, bumping his shoulder.

He smirked, flicking a fry at you. “Pretty sure I’m the reason this place isn’t dead.”

“Please,” you scoffed. “I’m the entertainment.”

His laugh came easy—messy, genuine. But then he looked at you, really looked at you, and something flickered in his chest. His voice dropped, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud: “Yeah. You are.”

The words hung there, heavy in the quiet.

Your heart stuttered. His hand was still holding the fry box, close enough that your pinky brushed his. Neither of you moved away.

It was ridiculous, really. Two kids in aprons, sitting on a curb, too afraid to name what was happening between them. And yet it felt like the most important thing in the world.

Because suddenly, you weren’t the only one cursed with this fever. Suddenly, you knew—he’d been working overtime for you too.

You smiled, soft and a little breathless. He smiled back. Neither of you said it, not yet. But it was there.

And maybe someday, you’d both be brave enough to call it what it was.