1. Lena
Lena
Twelve hours earlier.
The espresso machine at Second Circle Coffee screams like it’s being exorcised. Which feels appropriate. I’m three hours into my shift, two shots deep into my own bloodstream, and one passive-aggressive comment away from committing a felony with oat milk.
“Excuse me,” the woman at the counter says, holding up her cup like it personally offended her. “Lena, right?”
“Yep,” I say, glancing down at my name tag. “That would be me.”
“Lena, listen,” she says, disdain in her voice. “This is not what I ordered.”
I look at the sticker. Quad shot, half-caf, extra-hot, oat milk, one pump vanilla, one pump sugar-free vanilla, light foam, cinnamon but not too much cinnamon.
I blink. “You’re right,” I say pleasantly. “It’s coffee.”
Her lips flatten. “It’s too tan.”
Too. Tan.
I glance at the drink. It looks like every other oat milk latte that has ever existed. “I can remake it,” I say, because rent exists and so does my electricity bill.
“I don’t want it remade,” she replies. “I want it correct.”
Ah. One of those.
Behind me, the grinder roars. My coworker Jess catches my eye and makes a tiny cutting gesture across her throat.
Stay calm. Smile.
“Of course,” I say, already reaching for a fresh cup. “Let’s fix it. Would you like it lighter or darker?”
She considers this like I’ve asked her to solve climate change.
“Just… better.”
Fantastic.
I turn to the machine, tamp the grounds, lock the portafilter in place. The rhythm is automatic now. Grind. Pack. Pull. Steam. Pour. My hands move even when my brain is tired.
Second Circle smells like roasted beans and sugar and ambition. It’s small but trendy. Exposed brick. Mismatched chairs that are probably intentional. A chalkboard menu that changes based on whatever our manager saw on TikTok.
The espresso drips into the cup, dark and steady.
“Name?” I ask, not looking up.
“Chardonnay,” she says.
Of course it is.
I don’t let my face move. “Beautiful,” I reply.
I steam the milk carefully, watching the color shift. A shade paler. A little more foam. I tap the pitcher twice on the counter and pour slow, steady.
When I slide it across the counter, I make eye contact. “How does that look?”
She stares at it. Then at me. “It’s acceptable.”
Acceptable.
I resist the urge to bow. “Have a wonderful day,” I say, which is barista for please leave.
She takes the cup and floats away, presumably to complain on Instagram about how her barista ruined her day.
Jess leans over. “Too tan?” she whispers.
“So you heard that, huh?” I say, rolling my eyes.
She wipes down the counter. “Kind of hard not to.”
I smile. “Apparently we’re matching lattes to her aura now.”
Jess snorts.
I wipe down the counter, tuck a loose curl back into my ponytail, and take a sip of my own coffee that has gone lukewarm but still tastes like survival.
This is my life. Foam art. Student loans. Tips that fluctuate based on weather and human decency. I’m good at this job. I can read an order before someone finishes saying it. I can pull a shot that tastes like it means something. I can smile through almost anything.
What I cannot do is afford to quit.
The bell above the door jingles again, and I glance up automatically, ready to say hello.
For just a second—just a flicker—I feel like I’m being watched.
I shake it off.
Sleep deprivation. Too much caffeine. That’s all.
“Welcome to Second Circle,” I call out, already reaching for the next cup. “What can I get started for you?”
* * *
Lunch break at Second Circle Coffee isn’t really a break.
It’s a temporary ceasefire.
We sit on overturned milk crates behind the shop near the delivery door, because the actual tables inside are reserved for paying customers and people pretending to write novels. The alley smells like roasted beans and hot asphalt. Someone nearby is burning something that definitely isn’t incense.
Jess is cross-legged on the crate across from me, scrolling aggressively through her phone.
Mara is leaning against the brick wall, eating fries out of a paper bag like they personally offended her.
I’m holding a turkey sandwich that I forgot to toast. My apron is still tied around my waist because I’m too tired to pretend I have a life outside foam.
“This is depressing,” Jess announces.
“What is?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“You.”
I take a bite of the cold sandwich and chew slowly. “I love how supportive you are.”
Jess tilts her phone toward me. “Kindred. It just launched in the city. Everyone’s on it.”
“Everyone” means three influencers and a guy who once yelled at us because his cappuccino foam wasn’t symmetrical.
Mara is scrolling with the intensity of someone conducting espionage. “You are doing this,” she says.
“I am not,” I reply, dipping a fry into ketchup with surgical precision.
She leans back against the brick wall, sunglasses perched on her head. “You haven’t even looked at it.”
“I don’t need to look at it,” I say. “It’s a dating app. I know how this goes. It’s either gym selfies, fish photos, or men who describe themselves as ‘entrepreneurs’ with no further details.”
Jess spins her phone toward me anyway. “Kindred,” she says dramatically. “It’s curated. It’s algorithm-based. It’s not like the others.”
“They all say that,” I mutter. “So did my last situationship.”
Mara reaches over and steals one of my chips. “You need to go on a date.”
“I need to pay my rent,” I reply. “And maybe sleep.”
“You can do both,” Jess insists. “Multitasking. Very adult.”
I snort. “Dating is not multitasking. Dating is a full-time unpaid internship.”
They exchange a look.
This isn’t a random ambush. They’ve been circling this for weeks.
Jess met her girlfriend on a dating app two years ago and has been evangelical about them ever since. Mara dates like it’s a hobby she excels at. I, apparently, am the group charity case.
“You work too much,” Mara says, nudging my sneaker with hers. “You close almost every shift.”
“Because tips are better at night.”
“Because you volunteer for it,” Jess corrects.
I shrug. I do volunteer. The café is quieter at close. Less small talk. Less forced brightness. It’s easier to clean machines than to sit in my apartment listening to my neighbor argue with her cat.
“You’re twenty-something and hot,” Jess continues. “You should at least try.”
“I’m twenty-something and tired,” I say. “There’s a difference.”
Mara watches me carefully. She’s known me the longest. We started at Second Circle the same week three years ago, both pretending this job was temporary.
Temporary has a way of becoming permanent.
“You don’t even date casually,” she says.
“I’m busy.”
“With what?” Jess challenges lightly.
I hesitate for half a second too long. “With life,” I say.
Mara arches a brow. “You don’t even have family stuff to juggle.”
The words are casual. Not cruel. Just careless.
It still lands.
I pick at the crust of my sandwich. “True,” I say lightly. “No Thanksgiving drama. No awkward cousins. I’m tragically unburdened.”
Mara winces slightly, realizing too late. “Lena, that’s not?—”
“It’s fine,” I cut in with a small grin. “It’s actually one of my best features. Low emotional baggage. Limited backstory.”
They both look at me the way people look at a cracked mug they’re not sure they should still use.
For context: I bounced through foster homes until I aged out. No dramatic horror story. Just a lot of temporary bedrooms and people who meant well until they didn’t. I learned early that you don’t get attached to spaces or people who can leave.
Second Circle is the closest thing I’ve had to stable.
They’re not trying to hurt me. They’re trying to expand me.
“Look,” Jess says more gently now. “You deserve something nice. Not just shifts and side hustles and caffeine.”
“I have nice things,” I say defensively. “I have you two.”
Mara snorts. “We are not enough.”
“Speak for yourself,” Jess mutters.
I roll my eyes, but there’s warmth under it.
“You don’t even know what’s out there,” Jess presses. “Kindred matches based on interests and… vibes.”
“Vibes,” I repeat. “Scientific.”
“It’s curated,” she insists. “Better quality men.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“It’s free.”
That gets my attention.
Jess brightens. “Exactly. No harm. Just make a profile. If you hate it, delete it.”
I chew slowly, considering. Dating means vulnerability. Vulnerability means loss of control. Loss of control is not my favorite thing.
“I work forty hours here,” I say. “Plus freelance bookkeeping on weekends. When am I supposed to date?”
“Tonight,” Mara says immediately.
I laugh. “I am not meeting a stranger tonight.”
Jess shoves her phone toward me. “Just sign up. That’s all.”
I stare at the screen.
Kindred. Sleek logo. Attractive people with suspiciously good lighting.
“What if I match with a serial killer?” I ask.
“Then at least he’ll be a well-dressed one,” Mara says.
Jess nudges my knee. “You’ve spent your whole life being careful. Maybe try reckless. Just a little.”
That hits somewhere uncomfortable.
I have been careful. Careful with money. Careful with people. Careful with feelings.
Careful keeps you safe. But careful also keeps you alone.
I sigh dramatically. “Fine,” I say. “If I get murdered, I’m haunting both of you.”
Jess squeals like I just agreed to skydiving.
Mara grins. “We’ll put that on a T-shirt.”
Jess hands me the phone. “Start with a picture.”
I groan. “Absolutely not. I don’t take cute candid photos. I take holding a mop at ten p.m. photos.”
“That’s relatable,” Mara says.
Jess starts snapping pictures before I can protest, catching me mid eye roll.
“Perfect,” she declares.
I glance at the screen. I look… normal. Not influencer hot. Not dramatic. Just me.
Average. Replaceable.
Jess nudges me. “You’re going to match immediately.”
“I doubt that,” I say, but my stomach flips anyway.
She finishes setting up the profile while I protest weakly about privacy settings and bio wording.
“What should it say?” she asks.