If rock bottom had a soundtrack, it would probably be the soft hum of my fridge pretending to cool air instead of actual food.
It's payday tomorrow, thank God, but right now I'm living off instant noodles, espresso shots, and the faint hope that my landlord forgets what day it is. My savings app keeps sending passive-aggressive notifications like "You spent $12.50 on coffee last week."
Yes, app. I work at a café. It's called supporting local business.
Between rent, grad school fees, and whatever fresh hell my thesis advisor is cooking up, my financial stability is about as sturdy as the whipped cream tower Marco once tried to build on a hot latte.
Still, I wake up, tie my hair into a messy bun, and tell myself that today will be fine.
It has to be.
---
The Bean Scene looks deceptively peaceful when I arrive. Sunlight spills through the front windows, catching the motes of dust like glitter in motion. The air smells like espresso and sugar, my two favorite coping mechanisms. Mr Harris is already behind the counter, brow furrowed, clipboard in hand — which is never a good sign.
"Morning, boss," I say, hanging my coat.
He doesn't look up. "Morning, Bennett. You're early."
"I live in fear of public transportation."
He smirks. "Well, good. We need the extra hands. Crawford's team is coming in today."
I freeze mid-step. "Wait. Today today?"
"Yep." He glances at the clock. "Corporate inspection-slash-brand review-slash-'let's make sure you're not using decaf in the espresso machine again.'"
"That was one time!"
He grins. "Tell it to the clipboard."
I groan. "Why are big companies so dramatic?"
"Because drama sells coffee." He hands me a clean apron. "And because apparently, the owner himself might show up."
"The owner owner? As in Crawford Enterprises? The guy who's basically coffee royalty?"
"That's the rumor," Marco says. "So, we smile, we serve, and we pretend we're not dying inside."
"Perfect," I mutter. "My three best skills."
---
By ten, The Bean Scene is chaos.
Mr Harris is pacing like a drill sergeant, Stacy has claimed a corner booth "for moral support," and I'm running on caffeine fumes and adrenaline.
Every surface gleams, every pastry is perfectly arranged, and the espresso machine has been cleaned within an inch of its life. The corporate rep emails say the visit's about rebranding partnerships — basically, if we impress them, we might become the flagship café for Crawford's new local campaign. Translation: bonuses, job security, maybe even benefits that don't suck.
Which means we can't screw this up.
"Bennett!" Mr Harris calls. "Cup sleeves straight, sugar jars aligned!"
"Yes, your majesty!"
Stacy snickers from her booth. "You'd think Beyoncé was coming."
"She has better taste in coffee," I shoot back, adjusting the display pastries. "This is high-stakes capitalism, Stace."
"Please. You could charm your way through a tax audit."
I raise a brow. "Tempting fate much? The last time you said that, I spilled cold brew on a nun."
"She forgave you."
"She prayed at me for ten minutes!"
Stacy grins. "Same thing."
I roll my eyes and grab a cloth, trying to ignore the tiny knot of nerves twisting in my stomach. It's not just the corporate visit — it's him.
E. hasn't texted much today. Just a quick, "Busy morning. Wish me luck." Whatever that means.
I'd wanted to reply something flirty, maybe "You don't need luck," but I chickened out. Instead, I sent a safe, "You got this."
He hasn't answered yet.
I tell myself he's probably in a meeting. Probably busy. Probably not thinking about me half as much as I'm thinking about him.
But I still check my phone every ten minutes like an idiot.
---
By noon, my hands are shaking from too many espresso shots, and Mr Harris barking orders like a caffeinated general.
Then, the door chimes.
Everyone freezes.
A tall man in a dark suit steps in first — sleek, tailored, and way too serious-looking for a place that sells pumpkin lattes. He's followed by two assistants, both carrying tablets, both scanning the room like they're assessing stock value.
Mr Harris straightens his tie and whispers, "Game faces."
The man's presence shifts the air. Confident but quiet. The kind of quiet that demands attention. His suit looks like it costs more than my rent, and his watch probably has better Wi-Fi than my apartment.
He doesn't smile. Just scans the café — the décor, the counters, us.
When his eyes finally land on me, something flickers there. Just for a second. Like recognition, maybe, or surprise.
But I don't know him.
At least… I don't think I do.
I clear my throat and plaster on my best customer-service smile. "Welcome to The Bean Scene! What can I get started for you?"
His gaze lingers, unreadable. Then he steps forward, voice low but steady.
"I'll have a double espresso."
Simple. No nonsense. The kind of order that fits him — sharp, strong, precise.
"Coming right up," I say, retreating behind the counter like I've just survived a job interview.
As I work, I can feel his eyes on me. Not in a creepy way — more like he's trying to figure something out. I glance up once, catch his gaze, and quickly look back down at the milk frother.
My heart is beating faster than it should. Probably nerves. Probably caffeine. Probably not… whatever this is.
"Here you go," I say, setting the cup in front of him. "Double espresso, extra intensity, zero nonsense."
For the briefest second, a smile ghosts across his face.
It's faint, but it's there.
And then it's gone.
"Thank you," he says quietly.
His voice.
God.
There's something about it. Deep, familiar — like déjà vu in sound form.
I shake it off. My brain's just fried.
Too many nights of texting a faceless guy who somehow gets me better than most people I've met in real life.
He takes his espresso, nods politely, and joins his team near the window, speaking in low tones about "brand aesthetics" and "market positioning."
Marco leans in beside me. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm fine," I lie.
But I can't stop glancing at him.
The way he stands — confident, poised, detached. The way he looks at the space like he's cataloging it, not just seeing it. The faint crease between his brows when something doesn't meet his standards.
There's something about him that tugs at me, faint but persistent, like a melody I've heard before but can't place.
I shake my head, focusing on the next order.
It's fine. Just another corporate guy. Just another day.
Except… when he glances up again, our eyes meet for a split second.
And this time, I swear — he knows exactly who I am.