Chapter 3
Ben
Day two, and Felix is already humming again.
Same tune. No words. Just this soft, aimless little thing like we’re in a movie and he’s the scene where the main character bakes muffins and finds meaning.
It should annoy me. It does annoy me. And yet—
I don’t tell him to stop.
We fall into a rhythm, which is surprising, because he doesn’t seem like the “rhythm” type. More like the human equivalent of a dropped box of sugar packets. But he’s quick. He asks smart questions. Doesn’t burn the milk. And when he hands me the clean tamper, he does it without being asked.
It throws me off.
“You really have worked in a café before, huh?” I ask casually, though I already know the answer.
It’s in his file. I checked. Twice.
“Yeah. Two,” he says, flashing that grin again. “One in Asheville, one in Vermont. The Vermont one had a cat that liked to sleep on the pastry case.”
“Health violation,” I mutter.
He shrugs. “Customers loved her.”
Of course they did.
I finish pouring a latte and slide it across the counter to the one customer we get this early: Carol, who orders the same decaf soy every morning and hasn’t made eye contact in three years.
Felix tries, of course. Waves. Smiles. Says, “Have a great morning!” with the kind of sincerity that should be illegal before sunrise.
Carol grunts in return. Progress.
When Felix turns back to me, his eyes are bright. Hopeful. Like we’re sharing something.
We’re not.
He wipes down the counter, humming under his breath again. I don’t tell him to stop this time either.
Instead, I head to the espresso machine, but the dial’s sticking again. I crouch to fix it, and he leans over to get a better look at what I’m doing. His hand brushes mine.
Just a light touch. Barely anything.
But it lingers.
And I feel it. Like static. Or electricity. Or… something worse.
Something warmer.
I pull my hand back a little too fast and stand up. “Watch your footing. This floor gets slippery.”
That’s a lie. It doesn’t.
Felix gives me this look, like he knows I’m lying and is deciding whether to say something about it.
He doesn’t. Instead, he goes back to wiping the already-clean counter, humming again. Softer this time.
I hate that I noticed how warm his hand is. I hate that I noticed how he smells like cinnamon and clove, like he’s already part of this place, like he fits.
I hate that I noticed anything.
Because I don’t do this.
I don’t flirt. I don’t notice. I don’t touch.
Especially not someone about twenty years younger. Especially not someone I’m training. Especially not someone who hums through the morning like this is fun and not a slow death march of caffeine dependence and small-town tedium.
He catches me watching him, and I look away fast.
Nope. Not happening.
I’m too old for this. Too tired. Too jaded. Too… whatever. This is just that early-shift delirium kicking in. I haven’t had enough coffee. My defenses are down. That’s all.
Felix hums louder.
I adjust the grinder dial like it’s misbehaving, just to give myself something to do.
And I tell myself, firmly, that I am not interested. Not intrigued. Not anything. But the next time he smiles at me, I look back.
Just for a second.
And that’s the problem.