It’s mid-afternoon.
The café is packed.
Steam hissing. Cups clinking. That low buzz of people pretending they’re productive.
You’re at your usual table by the window.
Rhonda’s behind the counter, sleeves pushed up, moving efficiently. Calm. Controlled. Unbothered.
At least on the outside.
The door chimes. You barely look up. Until you hear it.
“Hey— oh my god, you’re here.”
You glance up.
It’s some guy from one of your games. You vaguely recognize him. Too enthusiastic. Too loud.
He walks right up to your table without asking.
“I’m a huge fan,” he says, grinning. “That last game? Insane.”
You give him a polite smile. “Thanks.”
He keeps talking. About your stats.
About how he “always knew you had it.”
About how he’s been to multiple games.
It’s… a lot.
Behind the counter, Rhonda is taking his order now.
Her voice is flat. Professional.
“What can I get you?”
He doesn’t even look at her.
“Uh, yeah, whatever’s fastest.”
She doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch. Just punches it in.
He turns back to you.
“You come here a lot?”
“Yeah.”
He laughs lightly.
“Wild that they let someone like her work here.”
Your smile drops.
Slowly.
“What?”
He gestures vaguely toward the counter.
“She’s kinda intense, right? I asked for extra caramel last time and she looked at me like I committed a crime.”
Your jaw tightens.
Across the room, Rhonda is steaming milk.
Not looking. But you know she hears him.
“She’s good at her job,” you say evenly.
“Sure, but customer service could use some work.”
He leans closer.
“You should come somewhere better. I know a place—”
“Hey.”
Your voice is sharp now.
He blinks.
“What?”
You stand up.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just steady.
“You don’t get to talk about her like that.”
He laughs awkwardly.
“Relax, I’m just saying—”
“No,” you cut in. “You’re not.”
The café goes quieter.
Not silent. But aware.
“You don’t ignore someone taking your order,” you continue calmly. “You don’t belittle her job. And you definitely don’t do it while standing in the place she works.”
His face flushes.
“I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Then think next time.”
Across the counter, Rhonda has gone very still. Watching.
He shifts awkwardly.
“I was just trying to be nice to you.”
“I don’t need that.”
The espresso machine clicks off.
Rhonda steps forward.
Sets his drink down. Flat. “Extra caramel,” she says coolly.
He grabs it quickly.
Mumbles something that might be an apology. Leaves.
The door chimes again. Silence lingers.
You don’t look at Rhonda immediately. You walk back to your table.
Sit. Take a sip of your drink.
A minute passes. Then she’s standing in front of you.
Arms crossed. “You didn’t have to do that.”
You look up. “I know.”
Her eyes search yours.
“Why did you?”
You shrug slightly. “He was rude.”
She studies you. “He was your fan.”
“So?” You glance back down at your cup. “He doesn’t get to disrespect you.”
Her composure cracks just slightly.
“You don’t owe me that.”
“I’m not doing it because I owe you.” A beat. “I did it because I wanted to.”
Silence stretches. The café noise slowly resumes around you.
Her voice lowers. “You don’t even know me like that.”
You hold her gaze.
“I know enough.”
That does something to her.
You see it. A flicker. A shift.
Her hand comes to rest on the edge of your table. Close to yours. Not touching.
But close.
“You’re going to ruin my reputation,” she mutters.
“What reputation?”
“That I don’t care.”
You smile faintly. “I know better.”
Her jaw tightens.
In a good way.
“You shouldn’t.”
“Too late.”
She glances toward the back room.
Then back at you.
“You staying a while?”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
She hesitates.
Then - Very softly, “Thanks.”
Not sarcastic. Not teasing.Just real.
You nod once.
“Anytime.”
And when she goes back behind the counter? She looks lighter. And she spells your name right. On purpose.