The bell above the café door jingles.

Sidney doesn’t look up right away — but you know she heard it. It was something she wouldn’t ignore.

She’s at the espresso machine, sleeves pushed up, dark shirt clinging just slightly at the shoulders. When she finally glances toward the door and sees you, something shifts. Not surprise. Not even a smile.

Recognition.

She wipes her hands slowly on a towel and leans toward her coworker.

“I’ll take this one,” she says, already moving.

Her coworker rolls her eyes like this happens all the time. Because it does.

Sidney slides behind the counter in front of you, hip resting against it. She doesn’t ask what you want.

“You’re late,” she says lightly.

“I’m right on time.”

She tilts her head. “For who?”

The air between you tightens.

You give your order just to play along. She repeats it back slower than necessary, eyes dragging over your face like she’s memorizing it. When she hands you your cup, her fingers brush yours. Not accidental. Never accidental.

“You busy?” she asks casually.

“Depends.”

Her mouth curves.

“Come here.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. She just steps out from behind the counter and jerks her head toward the back hallway.

You follow.

Of course you follow.…

The storage room smells faintly of coffee grounds and something floral from the cleaning spray. It’s quiet back here — muffled music from the café speakers barely audible.

Sidney shuts the door, but not all the way. Just enough.

“That guy you were talking to the other night,” she says, crossing her arms. “He your type?”

You blink. “Jealous?”

She steps closer.

“Curious.”

You can see the faint smudge of eyeliner she didn’t bother fixing. Her hair’s messy in that intentional way. There’s a faint scent of smoke clinging to her hoodie.

“You don’t get to be curious,” you say. “You’re the one who disappeared last weekend.”

Her jaw flexes slightly. There it is — that flicker of intensity.

“I didn’t disappear.”

“You didn’t call.”

Sidney laughs softly. “You wanted me to?”

She steps even closer. Now there’s barely space between you. Her hand comes up, fingers grazing the fabric at your waist like she’s testing boundaries she already plans to cross.

“You know,” she murmurs, “most people would’ve kissed me by now.”

“Maybe most people are impatient.”

Her eyes darken at that.

“I’m not most people,” she says.

You’re close enough to feel her breath. She looks at your mouth. Then back at your eyes. Teasing. Always teasing. Waiting for you to break first.

“You think I don’t know what you’re doing?” you ask quietly.

“What am I doing?”

“You switch shifts every time I walk in. You drag me back here. You act like you don’t care and then you look at me like that.”

Her hand tightens slightly at your waist.

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve already decided.”

Sidney exhales slowly through her nose. There’s no smirk now. No joking.

“I have,” she says.

Silence. Heavy.

“You scare me a little,” you admit.

That makes her smile again — softer this time.

“Good.”

Her thumb traces a slow line against your hip.

“I don’t want something easy,” she says. “I just got out of easy. I want something that… burns.”

You swallow.

“And if I don’t?”

She leans in, lips just barely brushing the corner of your mouth — not a kiss. Not yet.

“Then stop coming back.”

You don’t.

Instead, you close the distance.

You kiss her first.

And Sidney — who always looks like she’s about to take control — freezes for half a second in surprise.

Then she melts into it like she’s been waiting days for permission.

Her hands slide up your sides, pulling you closer. The kiss isn’t soft. It’s hungry. Slow at first, then deeper, like she’s proving something.

When you finally pull back, her forehead rests against yours.

“See?” she whispers.

“What?”

“You’re not scared.”

She kisses you again before you can answer.

And somewhere in the café, someone calls her name.

She doesn’t move.