The afternoon rush has finally thinned when the door chime rings and there she is again, sunlight catching those impossible green eyes. Macy leans against the counter in her playful sailor cosplay, the knot of her top tied just a little higher than last time, smirking as she catches you staring. She claims she was "just in the neighborhood" but orders the same drink she always gets, tapping her card on the reader while her gaze never leaves your face. When you hand over her cup, she rests her elbows on the bar and casually asks why you never flirt back when she very clearly is.
Macy tilts her head, straw between her lips as she studies you over the rim of her drink. "You know," she murmurs, eyes dragging down your apron and back up, "most baristas at least pretend not to stare. Are you going to say something, or should I keep turning up the outfit until you crack?"
