The hum of the café returned, folding over the brief tension like foam over espresso.
Jane moved back to her rhythm—pour, steam, serve, smile—but something in her shoulders stayed tight, the echo of that man's unwanted closeness still brushing against her skin like cold wind.
But she didn't let it show. Not in front of Mr. Ben, not in front of the customers.
"Two cappuccinos and one black, table seven," she called, sliding the tray forward.
A couple laughed behind her, waiting for a sugar packet. Someone spilled a bit of cocoa powder on the counter. Jane wiped it clean without pause.
"Her fingers worked fast, but her eyes flicked to the door, still alert, as if the air hadn't quite cleared."
Mr. Ben watched her from the other end of the counter. He didn't say anything more—he didn't need to.
His presence alone was grounding, like the solid wood beams in the café ceiling: quiet, dependable.
At 5:22, the early dinner crowd started to trickle in. The orders piled up again—wraps, muffins, strong brews, a chai latte with almond milk.
By 6:01, her feet were aching. Her back stiffened each time she reached for a cup. Still, she didn't stop. She kept moving, because movement was easier than pausing.
At 6:30, a man asked if the banana bread was still fresh. She assured him it was. She'd wrapped it herself not two hours ago.
At 6:43, she leaned against the counter just for a second, letting the warmth of the espresso machine ease into her spine.
The bell above the door rang again, and she pushed off the counter, bracing herself. Just another customer. But the door only brought in the ordinary."
No one particularly memorable.
She turned, wiped down the surface one more time, and caught a glimpse of the wall clock near the window.
6:45 PM.
Her heart gave a small thud.
Her shift was over.
She untied her apron slowly, folding it with care and sliding it under the counter. Mr. Ben met her eyes and gave a quiet nod.
"You did well today," he said. "Better head out before the night shift starts asking you to stay."
Jane smiled, tired but genuine. "Thanks… for earlier."
He waved her off with a wink. "Anytime. Go on, kid."
She grabbed her bag from the back and headed for the door, the city's dusky breath waiting just outside the glass.
The street was soft with the gold haze of early evening.
Jane stepped out of the café, wrapping her cardigan a little tighter as the breeze swept across her arms.
Her shoulders ached, her legs felt like softened rubber, but the freedom of the end of her shift made the aches feel almost earned.
She had just turned the corner when her phone vibrated in her pocket.
Mia:Hey. You're done, right? Pleaseee swing by Herbivoria? I'm craving that veggie dumpling thing with the spicy dip. I'll love you forever.
Jane huffed a laugh under her breath, fingers flying over the screen as she replied:
Jane:Sure. You owe me one.
She pocketed her phone and changed direction, already visualizing the cozy interior of the restaurant.
Herbivoria wasn't far—just a short walk past the flower shop and the little bookstore with the uneven sign.
She reached the glass doors in under ten minutes.
The smell of roasted garlic and sesame oil hit her first, rich and welcoming.
The place was full but not loud, murmurs of conversation buzzing beneath the mellow background music.
She stepped inside and headed straight for the front counter, smiling at the girl behind it.
"Hi, takeaway order. Veggie dumplings with the spicy dip," Jane said, leaning her arms on the polished wood counter.
The cashier smiled back, tapping at the screen. "Got it. It'll be just a few minutes."
Jane gave a small nod, stepping to the side to wait.
Her eyes roamed lazily around the room as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
Then—her gaze froze.
Two tables down, half hidden behind a wooden partition wall lined with plants, sat a familiar figure.
Graceful posture, hands folded neatly on her lap, hair in a smooth low bun. The curve of her cheekbone, the pale gleam of her ringless fingers.
Sophia.
Jane's breath hitched before she could stop it.
Across from her sat a man, maybe mid-thirties. Polished. Charismatic. He leaned in slightly as he spoke, smiling warmly. His fingers casually stirred the wine in his glass.
Sophia didn't smile.
She didn't even laugh politely.
She looked… restrained. Not tense exactly, but distant, like she'd mentally checked out five minutes ago and was only physically present out of obligation.
She tilted her head slightly, nodded once—but didn't meet the man's gaze directly.
Jane swallowed.
She should look away.
But she didn't.
It wasn't her business. She wasn't invited into that private moment—whatever kind of moment it was.
But still, something pulled at her. Maybe it was how unlike the confident, precise doctor she'd seen before Sophia looked now. Here, she seemed… tired. Maybe even bored.
The warmth of the espresso machine helped, but the chill that man left behind lingered, like a damp thread sewn into her skin."
The man chuckled at something he said. "I told your stepmother I'd get a smile out of you by dessert."
Sophia sipped her water, finally speaking—but quietly. "Then I suppose we'll be sitting here a while."
The man blinked, his smile faltering just slightly. "You're really not going to give me anything, huh?"
Sophia set the glass down. "It's not about giving. I'm just not… in the mood to entertain."
He leaned back, watching her. "So, this is a no?"
She looked at him then, full-on for the first time. Her expression wasn't cruel, just honest. "This was always a no. I just didn't want to make my father look bad."
Jane's breath caught.
The man let out a breathy laugh, more out of disbelief than humor. "Damn. You're beautiful, but you're brutal."
Sophia pushed her chair back gently. "Thank you for dinner."
And just then, she stood—and her eyes swept the restaurant.
They landed on Jane.
And held.
For a heartbeat too long.
"Jane didn't move, didn't breathe. The space between them felt suddenly intimate, like Sophia had reached across the room without lifting a hand."
Sophia didn't blink. Didn't smile. But her gaze softened. A thread of surprise wove through it, maybe even a flicker of something else—recognition. Relief?
Jane's mouth parted slightly, words caught in her throat.
The man was still seated, confused. "You know her?" he asked.
Sophia tilted her head. "No."
But her eyes didn't leave Jane's until she stepped past the table, her elegant silhouette brushing by like a whisper, heels clicking softly against the floor.
Jane stood still, her heart thudding a little too loudly as the man at the counter called, "Order ready for Jane!"
She turned, took the bag with a quiet "Thanks," and stepped out into the evening again—
"—with Sophia's no still trailing her like perfume, impossible to shake."