The late shift at the café was usually slow, the kind of night where time dragged and the only customers were exhausted students and insomniacs in desperate need of caffeine. It should’ve been easy. Simple. Peaceful, even. Except Carter was working.

No, correction—Carter was struggling.

You leaned against the counter, watching as he faced off against the espresso machine like it was some kind of ancient puzzle he needed to decode. His brows were furrowed in deep concentration, jaw set, fingers hovering over the buttons as if pressing the wrong one might summon some kind of disaster. He exhaled, squared his shoulders, and pressed a button.

Nothing. He pressed another. Still nothing.

“…Okay, in my defense, this thing looks like an ancient relic,” he muttered, cautiously tapping a different switch.

The machine let out a violent hiss, steam shooting out like it was personally offended by his existence. Carter flinched back, nearly knocking over a cup in the process.

You arched a brow. “And yet, history major, you still can’t figure out how to make a latte.”

He shot you a look, adjusting his apron with what little dignity he had left. “Coffee and history are two very different studies, alright?”

You gestured to the disaster zone in front of him, where a half-made drink was now dripping onto the counter. “You’ve been working here for two weeks.”

Carter sighed, grabbing a towel and wiping up the mess with the resigned air of a man who had lost a battle he never should’ve fought in the first place.

“And I haven’t been fired yet,” he pointed out, like that was something to be proud of.

The machine hissed again. More coffee spilled.

He stared at it. You stared at him.

“…Okay,” he admitted, voice flat. “Maybe I deserve to be fired.”