He moved through the café like he owned the air inside it, every step deliberate. He stopped in front of her station at the counter.
"Americano. Black. To go," he said, his voice smooth yet edged with authority.
"Coming right up," she replied, fingers fumbling with the espresso machine.
She could feel him watching her, not in the way most men did, but as if he were cataloging details—her calloused hands, the slight fray at her uniform's collar, the stubborn strand of hair that refused to stay tucked behind her ear.
"Do you like working here?" he asked suddenly.
Ava glanced up, startled. "It pays the bills."
"Barely," he said without hesitation, though there was no malice in his tone—just fact.
She raised an eyebrow. "Do you make a habit of insulting baristas, or am I just the lucky one?"
The corner of his mouth twitched. "You're lucky. I don't usually talk to anyone in places like this."
When she handed him the coffee, he placed a crisp hundred-dollar bill in the tip jar.
"This is too much," she protested.
"It's not even close to what you deserve," he said, and walked out before she could reply.