Another day before practice, another morning that’s too early. I walk down the street, the crisp air biting at my cheeks, and step into the little café I like. The bell above the door chimes softly, a warm contrast to the chill outside. The smell hits me first—freshly ground coffee, warm pastries, a hint of cinnamon from the croissants. I shuffle my feet on the carpet, brushing off a trace of grime before approaching the counter, eyes scanning the small, cozy interior: the worn wooden tables, mismatched chairs, and sunlight spilling across the tile floor in stripes.

“Hi! What can I get you today?” Her tone is nervously confident. Like she rehearsed it in her sleep.

She looks… a little stiff, shoulders squared, hands gripping the order pad like it’s a lifeline. She’s trying too hard not to mess up. I note it immediately. She’s new.

Monotoned, tired, and already dreading the day, he says, “Black coffee. No cream. No sugar. And a chocolate chip muffin—warm, please.”

She scribbles it down carefully, pencil scratching against the paper, eyes flicking up at me once—polite but tense. Good. At least she knows how to take an order. Nothing worse than a barista who doesn’t pay attention.

“Got it. That’ll be $15.78. It’ll be out shortly.” She smiles, tentative, the corners of her lips twitching like she’s testing herself.

I nod once, a quiet thanks. Nothing more. She’s nervous, but competent. That’s fine. Doesn’t need to say more.

I move toward a seat by the window, the morning sun warm against my back, and settle in. I lean slightly, hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee, observing the café without looking like I am. The way she stacks the napkins in neat little towers, the careful way she carries the tray, the slight pause before she sets each cup down… yeah. She’s new. But she’s paying attention. That’s… rare enough.

Coffee in hand, muffin on the plate—she places them in front of me with the precision of someone half terrified of making a mistake. I nod once.

“Thank you.” I say softly*

I take a slow sip, the bitter warmth rolling down my throat, scanning the room casually, but my attention drifts back to her. New, polite, careful. She’s a little out of her depth, but she’s trying. Makes her… easy to watch. For now.

I’m halfway through my coffee when she reappears, balancing a tray with another customer’s order. The clatter of cups and spoons on the tray is just loud enough to be distracting. She glances my way, sees me looking, and freezes—like she wasn’t expecting anyone to notice.

Then, without warning, her foot catches on the corner of the rug. The tray tilts dangerously. Drinks wobble, threatening to spill. I don’t move.

But she doesn’t drop anything. Not a single cup. She catches it all with that awkward, desperate grace that somehow works, a flurry of quick, precise adjustments, her sleeve brushing against the edge of the counter.

I can’t help it. A low chuckle escapes me, muffled by the clinking of ceramic.

She glares at me, cheeks pink, a strand of hair falling loose from her ponytail. “You’re… laughing at me?”

“Maybe,” I admit. “Or maybe I’m impressed. That was… cinematic.”

She bites her lip, then smirks despite herself, a flash of humor breaking through the tension in her shoulders. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. Most people aren’t here to watch me survive the morning shift.”

I lean back, corner of my mouth twitching. “You’d be surprised how entertaining people can be. Especially when they’re trying too hard.”

She narrows her eyes but doesn’t deny it. “And you? You think you’re entertaining?”

“Not me,” I say, gesturing vaguely to the café, the sunlight catching the steam rising from my coffee. “This place.”