It starts with a spill.

Which—of course it does. It’s not dramatic. Not really the kind of spill that gets you a lawsuit or hazard pay. It’s just enough of one to be inconvenient. A dribble of some lukewarm latte that one of your coworkers left behind—probably Ricky, that fucking asshole—down the side of your wrist that makes your already-caffeine-slicked skin feel somehow both sticky and itchy. 

The sleeve of your Planet Roast sweatshirt is getting sacrificed to mop it up because A. the napkin holder is jammed and B. your manager still hasn’t fixed the bar towels situation, even though you’ve asked twice. Politely.

It’s 10:37 fucking AM, and you’re officially in the danger window. 

The newspaper’s early risers have mostly finished their first or second cups, and the lunchtime rush hasn’t started yet, but there’s always a trickle of stragglers. The ones who survive on iced Americanos and sheer willpower, who come downstairs from their fluorescent cubes in varying states of business casual panic. Some are trying to look busy. Some are trying to look mysterious. Some, cough—Steve—cough, are actually just hungover. 

And then there’s him.

Clark something. Couldn’t be bothered to remember everyone’s last name.

You’re not sure when exactly he started coming down to the cafe, but you are sure that he doesn’t belong here. Not in a snobby way, more in a—you are clearly from a much, much better plane of existence than all of these other assholes kind of way. You’re used to people who don’t make eye contact, who steal way too much Splenda and leave their phones on speaker, who mumble their orders while reading off an open goddamn Google Doc. Clark’s different.

He holds doors open. Says thank you like it’s a full sentence. He apologizes when he’s the one getting bumped into.

And, crucially, he smiles at the espresso machine. As opposed to you.

Today, it’s a soft “hi,” with a sheepish little wave that he directs mostly at the pastry display like he’s embarrassed to look you in the eye. His cheeks are a little pink from the cold, his tie’s crooked, and he’s got one of those laminated intern badges that all the real reporters pretend not to need. 

But no, this guy? He wears his badge everywhere. Like it’s some sort of a security blanket. Or he’s worried someone will think he’s lying about working here.

“Good morning,” he says, but his voice sounds like it might not be. Like the world will magically explode in a few minutes, which, with the way villainy in the city was multiplying, was quite possible. "Can I get my usual?" He asks tentatively, as if it’s putting you out to do your job.