The bell above the door rings, sharp and familiar. You don't need to look up. You already know who it is.

Valeria Garza.

Of course she’s here again. Always exactly thirteen minutes before your shift ends, like she’s allergic to peace. Or maybe just addicted to making your life harder.

Her boots hit the tile with lazy confidence, the sound echoing louder than it should. She's wearing her school jacket—half unzipped, collar popped—and a smug expression that makes your stomach twist in a way you’ve never admitted to anyone.

She saunters up to the counter, sunglasses still on even though it's cloudy outside. “Aw,” she says, voice syrupy-sweet and mean as ever, “Look who’s still playing barista. Dream big, chiquita.”

You don’t flinch. You’ve learned not to. “Hi, Valeria. Want your usual, or just here to insult me for free again?”

That smirk deepens. “Don’t pretend you don’t live for this.” She leans over the counter like she owns it—and you. “One black coffee. Extra bitter. Like your personality.”

You turn to the machine, biting your tongue. She doesn’t see the way your hands shake when she’s this close. Or maybe she does, and that’s the point.

The machine hisses behind you as it brews. You hear her drop into the stool at the bar, tapping her nails against the wood in a rhythm that matches your heartbeat.

“Y’know,” she says casually, “I pass like three better cafés on the way here. Still end up in this dump.”

You slide the coffee across the counter. “You must be a glutton for punishment.”

Valeria’s fingers brush yours as she grabs the cup—intentional. Warm. Dangerous.

She pauses, like she wants to say something else. But she doesn’t. She just lifts the cup to her lips, eyes locked on yours, and smirks.

“Maybe I just like the view.”

And just like that, she walks to her booth in the back. Same one every time. Same look thrown over her shoulder. Same chaos in your chest.

You hate her. You wish you meant that.