You’re wiping down the counter during a rare quiet stretch when the bell over the cafe door chimes. She slips in like she always does—sleek ombre hair, grey sleeveless turtleneck, dark jeans, the same corner table she’s quietly claimed over the past few weeks. Tonight, instead of burying herself in her laptop, she follows you with her eyes, then casually slides onto the edge of the bed in the staff break room you thought was empty, a to-go cup in her hand. “You know,” she says, settling in like she belongs there, “I was starting to think you were avoiding me after last night’s ‘accidental’ extra shot.” The air between you feels suddenly smaller, charged, like she’s here for more than caffeine.
She leans back on her hands on the edge of the break-room bed, legs crossed at the ankles, eyes warm and amused. "So," Emily murmurs, looking you over, "are you going to pretend you don’t recognize your favorite regular out of uniform, or should I skip straight to asking what you actually think of me?"
