2. Chapter 2
Wren
The café always smells like burnt beans and regret—like someone tried to bottle corporate despair and brew it through a French press.
I walk in ten minutes late—again—and pretend not to see Marcus’s glare from behind the pastry case. He’s our shift manager, part-time barista, full-time buzzkill. If you poured lukewarm oat milk into human form and added a superiority complex with just a dash of petty tyrant, you'd get Marcus.
He doesn’t say anything—not because he’s above it, but because he’s already given up trying to make me care. I flash him a dry smile and tug my apron over my head.
I don’t work the register. I’m behind the machines, on drinks and prep. Quiet work. Efficient. No need to speak.
Maya’s on the register today. Bright-eyed, messy bun, unapologetically chipper. She learned sign language for me within a week of meeting me, said she always wanted to anyway, and now uses it fluently with the same ease she takes a triple shot caramel macchiato order.
We've worked together here for nearly eighteen months now, since I landed on this side of the country with a backpack, a burner phone, and freshly dyed Hello Kitty-pink hair.
I'd picked this place deliberately—out of the way, no chain branding, and the kind of clientele too absorbed in their own reflections to notice the girl behind the machine. After everything fell apart, anonymity wasn’t just a preference. It was the whole damn plan.
Maya was the first person I met who didn’t ask too many questions.
She saw through the silence and filled it with kindness.
She's the kind of friend who doesn’t just show up—she stays, even when you push her away.
And when she noticed I signed my coffee orders to myself while memorizing the layout of the café, she decided I wasn't allowed to be the mysterious loner anymore.
She learned to sign, texting me memes, and even saved me from more than one socially awkward disaster.
She also has zero chill when it comes to guys, gossip, or caffeine.
“Rough night?” she signs quickly with a flick of her fingers, not even missing a beat as she punches in an order with the other hand.
I nod once. Nothing else needed.
The line is already snaking out the door, mostly tech bros in startup hoodies and ironic sneakers, juggling three devices and the fragile egos of middle-management.
One hand on their phone, the other wrapped around a $1,200 laptop like it's a therapy dog with Wi-Fi. I grab the first order and get to work.
Somewhere between a double espresso with seven pumps of hazelnut and an iced matcha with oat milk and a side of daddy issues, Maya glances at me and subtly points with her chin.
I look up and see him.
Hoodie. Deep sexy voice. Brooding aura. Jace.
He’s one of our regulars, though he always acts like he hates that fact.
Never lingers. Never makes eye contact for longer than two seconds.
Just stalks in like a thundercloud, orders the same thing—black coffee, no sugar, no cream and a ginger scone—and then broods his way out like someone just spit in his existential dread.
He’s already at the pastry case, looking down like it insulted him.
"Ginger ones are already gone," Maya tells him.
He grunts. Actual, literal grunt. She shrugs and gives him the total. The whole transaction is over in less than thirty seconds, but I still find myself watching him longer than necessary.
Just a glance.
Okay, maybe two.
Three customers later, the door swings open again and in walks the human equivalent of a neon sign: Theo.
If Jace is grayscale and growl, Theo is color and swagger. Tall, cocky, probably allergic to humility. He wears sunglasses indoors like he’s the third Hemsworth brother no one invited.
He walks up to the counter and leans in with a grin that’s probably gotten him laid more times than he deserves.
"Hey, Trouble," he says to Maya, then glances back at me. "Hey, Sunshine. You look like you didn’t get any sleep. Up all night thinking about me again?"
I raise an eyebrow from the espresso machine, not bothering to sign a response. Maya rolls her eyes.
"She’s mute, not deaf, you idiot," she tells him. "And even if she weren’t, that line’s a war crime."
He laughs like he’s unbothered, which he probably is.
"Mocha with chili and whipped cream?" Maya asks.
"You know me too well."
I prepare his drink without looking at him, though I feel his eyes on me the entire time. It’s not the creepy kind of watching. It’s the kind that makes your skin itch because it feels... focused. Not just on your ass or your tits, but on all the invisible pieces you think you’ve hidden.
We have a ton of regulars—the usual parade of tech addicts, crypto bros, startup gremlins, and people who think tipping 10% is generous because they recycled once in 2016. But those two? They snag my attention every damn time.
They’re both hot. In wildly different, equally irritating ways.
Jace is all tension and shadow. The kind of man who probably reads Russian literature and broods about the futility of existence while lifting weights shirtless.
Theo is chaos in human form. The kind of guy who’d get you into trouble just for fun, and probably help you bury the bodies after.
Not that either of them would ever give me a second glance that meant anything. I’m not the type of girl who catches those kinds of eyes. Not anymore.
Still… I notice.
And what’s more, they never come in together. Never talk to each other. But they’re always here—on alternating days, or within minutes of each other. Just enough to tickle that part of my brain that no longer trusts coincidences.
Not since my life turned into a true crime docuseries.
And there’s something else.
Something I’m trying real hard not to think about.
Their voices.
There’s something vaguely familiar about the way they sound. Not all the time. Just in passing. Just enough to make my stomach twist in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine withdrawal.
I shake it off and focus on Theo’s drink. He studies me like I’m a lock, one that he isn’t sure whether to pick or smash to get to the secrets inside.
"You always this quiet?" he asks, flashing a grin.
Maya gives him a look. "You literally know she can’t talk. Are you just trying to flirt badly or are you this dense by default?"
He laughs, picks up his drink, and throws me a wink. "Worth a shot."
And honestly? I suspect that’s the whole point.
Theo keeps asking questions he already knows I won’t answer, like he’s waiting for the day I’ll surprise him.
Like if he asks enough, I might forget I’m silent and speak just for him.
Part of me finds it frustrating—like he’s chipping at something I’ve worked too hard to protect.
But another part… the part I hate acknowledging…
finds it oddly sweet. Hopeful. As if someone still believes there’s a version of me that might want to come back out of hiding.
It’s foolish. Persistent. Weirdly kind. And annoying as hell. But also? Kinda hard to ignore.
He walks off, leaving behind a tip and the faint scent of expensive cologne and poor decisions.
I lean against the counter, taking a second to breathe. My shift isn’t over for another four hours, but mentally? I’m already gone.
Tonight, I won’t be Vanta. Not after last night.
Instead, I texted Lorna this morning and let her know I wouldn’t be logging on from home tonight.
Not after those messages. Not after that photo.
She was surprisingly chill about it—told me to come into the studio tomorrow instead.
Said the subscribers won’t care, since they love the occasional change of scenery.
Better lighting, better angles, less chance of someone watching me through a goddamn window.
So no lace and wig tonight.
Instead, I’ll game.
It’s been a few days since I’ve logged in, and honestly?
I miss it. I miss the chaos. The adrenaline.
The competitive shit-talking. I even miss the guys I usually play with—the ones who have no idea who I really am.
Who only know me as Silence, the mute sniper who carries their sorry asses through raids and leaves without a word.
Gaming feels safer. Detached. And right now, I need that.
But still—maybe, just maybe—those same voices I hear at the café will drift into my headset. Low. Familiar. That same edge of recognition I keep trying to ignore.
Comforting in a way that should probably terrify me.
But for now?
I’m already counting down the hours until I get to hide again behind pixels and shadows and everything I’ve built to keep the world from seeing the cracks.
I slap on another fake smile and glance at Maya, who catches my expression and signs, “Those two are totally into you.”
I scoff and sign back. “Please. They're just here for caffeine and sarcasm.”
She grins. “ Yeah, but they come back for the pink-haired barista who doesn’t take their shit. I’m telling you—Jace looks at you like you’re a math problem he secretly wants to solve. And Theo? That boy is one unanswered question away from writing you poetry.”
I roll my eyes so hard I nearly sprain something. “ You’ve officially watched too many rom-coms.”
Maya winks. “ Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
I pause for a beat, then sign: “ You mean like that yoga guy who keeps asking for your number? Or the hedge fund dude who leaves you poems with his receipts?”
She blushes, swats at me, and signs back: “They’re harmless. And besides, they flirt with both of us. Maybe we’re just a hot barista duo.”
“More like chaos and caffeine incarnate,” I reply with a smirk.
Maya giggles and flicks a sugar packet at me. "Whatever. All I’m saying is, if they ever come in on the same day and a fight breaks out, I’m filming it for content."
“You’d go viral for sure,” I sign back with a grin.
She leans in closer and whispers, "But seriously… you ever wonder what they’re really thinking when they look at you like that?"
I shrug, but my stomach knots again.
Because yeah.
I do.
Sometimes I wonder if they know who I really am.
If they’ve put the pieces together. If they’re watching me too closely. If they recognize something I’ve spent the last year trying to erase.
That’s totally normal, right? Definitely not suspicious. Absolutely, perfectly fine.
If I say it enough times, maybe it’ll even be true.
And the worst part isn’t the fear.
It’s the sliver of hope that maybe they don’t.