Glimmer (Lust & Luster #2)

One

Chiara

My name tag says Lyss. It’s the version of me I let people see.

The rest is hidden in a lockbox under my bed, wrapped in an old dish towel that still smells faintly of soap from the place I left behind.

I almost never open it. Morning is too early for reminders of who I used to be.

Most days, I pretend it isn’t there at all.

Customers see latte art and a grin.

The first rush barrels in. Hoodies, Converse sneakers, Patagonia vests, swinging lanyards, and earbuds screwed in like implants. They speak fast, tip in change, vanish.

“Triple shot, almond milk, extra hot,” a man says while his thumbs sprint across his phone.

“On it.” I tamp, lock, pull. Twenty-seven seconds, silky as it falls. Coins clink into the jar, sharp and cold. I pass the cup. He drops a twenty without looking, like generosity works best when you don’t risk eye contact.

“Nonfat cap, extra foam,” says a woman whose heels could start a coup. She squints at the chalkboard. “Your sign is crooked.”

“It’s a metaphor.”

“For what?”

“For how we’re all doing our best.” I draw her a leaf into her foam.

A smile cracks her precision. “Cute.” She slides two bills into the jar and clacks away.

Behind her, the yoga girls arrive smelling of eucalyptus.

“Ask for oat milk,” one stage-whispers. “She’ll glare.”

“I don’t glare.” I reach for the carton. “I radiate silent judgment. Totally different.”

They burst out laughing and float off toward their studio.

Normal. Safe. Almost.

I count exits while I steam milk. Alley to the left, tower lobby of Marino Holdings to the right, sprint to the waterfront if I have to run. Three ways out. Numbers don’t lie, even when people do.

The burner phone buzzes in the drawer, low and angry. I don’t look. Rule one, don’t improvise your way into regret.

A tourist couple appears with a map clutched like a lifeline.

“Do you have pumpkin spice?” the woman asks.

“It’s April,” I say.

Her face drops. “So…no?”

“Sorry. The season died six months ago.” I hand them two lattes. “Cinnamon will hold your hand through the grief.”

They chuckle, drop too many coins, and wander off in the wrong direction.

The flower guy across the street lifts a bucket of tulips in salute. His knuckles are swollen from years of hauling stems, but he moves like a man who belongs to this block.

Me? I float. Try not to leave footprints.

Working at a cart makes me invisible in a way four walls never could.

Nobody asks for a résumé at a sidewalk stand.

Nobody cares about your past when all they want is caffeine fast enough to beat a red light.

A cart means you belong everywhere and nowhere at once.

Behind this counter, I’m part of the scenery.

Noticed for a transaction. Forgotten the moment the cup leaves my hand.

That’s what makes it safe. Safety is being forgettable. Safety is being background.

Background means no one looks twice. It means no one asks questions. It means I get to keep breathing.

A boy in a hoodie hums while he counts quarters into his palm. “Uh, what can I get for this?”

I study the pile. “A small drip and the moral support of a stranger.”

He laughs, relieved. “I have a test.”

“You’ll do fine.” I push the cup across. “If your brain blanks, breathe like you’re smelling fresh cookies.”

“That’s…weirdly helpful.” He grins and bolts.

An office manager with a clipboard orders six drinks in a voice that could make printers behave. I watch her handwriting. Block letters, all caps. Efficient, not precious. She slips a five into the jar.

“You always remember the caramel drizzle,” she says.

“Some promises are sacred.”

Her mouth quivers toward a smile, as if it forgot how. “See you tomorrow.”

The rhythm soothes me. Shot, steam, pour, slide. Banter, smile, nod, next. I look like a woman who finds comfort in repetition. I’m a woman who finds safety in it.

He comes like he always does. Not the nightmare him. The other one.

Nightmare men move too fast, take too much space, make you smaller without ever touching you. This one doesn’t.

Mr. Perfect Order.

He waits even when there’s no line. He carries stillness like a skill.

“Good morning,” he says, voice low and steady.

“Morning. Two sugars, no froth crimes, the way the coffee gods intended?”

“You make it sound like I don’t trust you with variety.”

“Oh, you don’t. You’re afraid of cinnamon. It knows what you did.”

“Cinnamon is reckless,” he says. “Nutmeg too. People think they know what they’re inviting and then regret it.”

I laugh, and the sound feels like remembering a muscle. “You’re scarier than almond-milk guy.”

“Almond milk isn’t real milk.” He accepts the cup, fingers brushing mine.

The contact is nothing. A graze. Barely there. My body reacts anyway, a quiet, traitorous warmth I don’t invite and definitely don’t need.

“For the record,” his voice low. “I considered cinnamon. I just decided against it.”

“You chickened out.”

“I weighed the risks and made an informed decision.” That smile does a ridiculous thing to my insides.

He steps aside, stirs six turns, tosses the stick, and lifts the cup in a little salute. See you, not goodbye. Then he blends into the crowd heading towards the lobby of Marino Holdings.

The absence hums. The cart looks the same. I look the same. The street keeps moving. I fuss with lids already straight.

A stroller mom comes juggling baby, bag, and phone. The infant studies me with round, solemn eyes. I draw a smiley in the foam.

“Cute,” she says.

“Careful. It spreads.”

She laughs, wheels away, and the air changes. Thinner. Colder.

I check my reflection in the steel. Hair neat. Shirt tidy. Face…fine. A little pale. Eyes waiting.

That’s when I see him.

Maybe.

Across the street. Half-shadowed by the bus shelter. Tall. Suit cut too sharp for this block. Hands pocketed like fists asleep.

My chest tightens. Just another commuter. A stranger. Cities are full of them. Don’t do this.

I pour milk. Ask a girl what syrup she wants. She says vanilla. I nod like it didn’t echo from underwater.

I look again. Sunlight slices his hair. Dark, slick, too familiar. My neck prickles.

It isn’t him. It can’t be. He’s in Chicago not San Francisco. He doesn’t know where I am and that I work this cart and changed everything.

A laugh slips, brittle. Paranoid much? Every man in a suit isn’t out to ruin you.

I hand off a mocha, touch the tamper. I glance back like pressing a bruise.

He’s gone.

The tamper slips in my sweaty grip, clattering. Grounds scatter like dirt. I fix a smile so wide my cheeks hurt. “Next,” I call, my voice normal enough. Inside, the floor disappears.

He wouldn’t recognize me. My hair is lighter. I’ve gained some weight. I changed my name. There’s no way. My brother is home in Chicago with my father.

I stare at where he was standing.

“You forgot my cookie.” Mr. Perfect is back.

The voice cleaves the panic. Too close. Too calm.

Relief knocks me sideways. My knees buckle. I grab a bag, nearly drop it, fingers fumbling like they’ve forgotten their job.

“It’s—” My voice cracks. I cough, try again. “It’s Tuesday. You only get one on Fridays.”

The words tumble out too quick, too many.

He studies me, steady. “Maybe I’m practicing spontaneity.”

I laugh, high, brittle. My hand shakes as I scoop the cookie, bag crinkling loud enough to draw notice if anyone cared. Nobody does. Except him.

“You? Spontaneous? Please. You make spreadsheets about sugar packets.”

That slow smile curves, unbothered by my mess. My pulse steadies for a heartbeat, and then the back of my neck prickles again.

“You okay?” he asks, voice lower now.

I yank my cuff down, force a grin that burns my cheeks. “Fine.” Metallic on my tongue.

He doesn’t believe me, but he lets it go. He drops a bill heavy for what he bought. “If you change your mind,” he says, quieter, “I’m usually right up on the forty-eighth floor.” He vanishes into the building.

And the space he leaves isn’t lighter. It lingers.

The rest of the afternoon settles back into rhythm eventually. Orders. Milk steaming. Change clinking into the jar. The city rushing past like nothing inside me shifted at all.

Maybe nothing did.

By closing time, the panic has dulled enough to feel embarrassing.

I lock the cart in practiced order and start toward the bus stop with the rest of the evening crowd moving down Market Street.

By the time I reach the stop, the city has settled back into itself.

Office towers glow against the coming fog, traffic crawls through the intersections below, and nobody pays any attention to the woman standing on the sidewalk with coffee on her sleeves and exhaustion sitting heavy behind her eyes.

Nobody follows me home.

The man near the bus shelter was probably exactly what I told myself he was—a stranger my brain reshaped into something familiar because fear gets bored when nothing happens for too long.

I should feel relieved by that.

Instead, somewhere between Market Street and the bus stop, my thoughts circle back to the forty-eighth floor of Marino Holdings and a man who stirs his coffee six exact times every morning before taking the first drink.

There’s something unsettling about the precision of him, about the way he notices details without ever making it feel intrusive.

The smile that pulls at my mouth catches me off guard.

Not because of him.

Because after two years of surviving by not noticing anyone at all, I noticed him anyway.