Chapter 44: The Customer Is Always Wrong, Actually
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His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d run his hands through it and not bothered to fix it afterward. On him, it looked effortlessly stylish; on anyone else, it would have appeared like they just woke up.
As soon as I turned around, his eyes found mine. Like he’d known exactly where I was before I even moved, shit Maya was right!
The atmosphere in the café shifted immediately, or maybe it was just my internal temperature rising.
My brain, ignoring all professional behavior, dumped everything from the last forty-eight hours into my mind in one rushed wave: the argument, the apology, the fresh start, the goodnight, the way he looked at me when I asked why, the weight of his decision.
I considered walking straight out onto the street. Calmly, with dignity.
"Oh my God," Maya whispered beside me, low and delighted, clearly reading my face as accurately as ever. "Something happened."
"Nothing happened."
"Oliver—"
"Nothing," I insisted and walked toward the counter before she could say another ’mhm.’
The distance from the storage shelf to the register was normally a breeze. Today, though, it felt like I was crossing a reconfigured space I hadn’t noticed before.
I stopped in front of him, putting on my best customer service face, the professional, neutral one that didn’t hint at the last couple of days or the annoyance that was brewing in me for this dude to think he could just come in and demand for me to serve him like he was the fucking King of the Universe or whatever he thought he was...
Rich people...
I suppose I should just handle his order, after all...he’d apologized to me. So I had not reason to avoid him anymore.
"What can I get for you today?" I asked, politely.
Damien met my gaze just a split second longer than necessary, his look hitting me right in the chest, and then said:
"The usual."
Just two words.
And somehow, the annoying and embarrassing truth was that I knew what his usual was. I’d seen Maya whip it up every Saturday for months: a large vanilla latte with an extra shot and no whipped cream. Information I’d absorbed without meaning to, like how you gather details about people you see regularly, and now it felt like evidence of something I didn’t want to name just yet.
I turned toward the espresso machine before my face could start betraying me.
I could feel him watching me, not the casual attention of a customer waiting for his order, but something more... a kind of focused attention I had learned was distinctly his over the past weeks.
I grabbed a cup and almost dropped it, thankfully I caught it.
Breathe...Oliver, just be chill.
Be professional, normal. You’re just making a latte. This is a latte-making situation and nothing else.
The espresso machine hissed away, and I focused with an intensity that was way over the top for what I was doing.
My hands felt a bit shaky, nothing serious, just annoying enough to register as data I didn’t want.
"You left early this morning."
I fumbled the milk pitcher...caught it against the counter with both hands, steadied it, and stood there for a moment staring at the machine.
I also broke into tears...
God, what was wrong with me?!
"What?" I finally said.
"When I woke up, you were already gone."
I stared at the espresso machine, feeling like someone had just thrown me a curveball and I needed a moment to regroup.
Why did he say it like that? With that specific casual weight, it felt like he was hinting at something deeper rather than just stating a fact. Why did it sound like he cared about the absence?
"I had work," I replied without looking back.
Silence stretched between us, then he said, "You’re clumsy when you’re nervous."
I inwardly gasped, how dare he assume that I was nervous?!
I mean I was...but how dare he?!
I whipped around, ready to argue. "I am not nervous."
Damien had one elbow resting on the counter, radiating that infuriating ease of his, and that smirk, the new, nagging smirk that had been causing me trouble..was back in full force.
"You nearly dropped the cup."
"I...I uh..."
"You spilled coffee on me the first time we met."
"That was years ago and a completely different incident."
"You almost dropped the milk just now."
I pointed a spoon at him, utterly convinced. "You shut up."
He chuckled in response and I almost melted.
He was doing this on purpose! He was standing there being distractingly charming and narrating the results like I’m the one with the issue.
The smirk deepened just a little. Which shouldn’t have done anything, but it totally did.
Heat crept up my neck, quick and efficient like it had just been waiting for an excuse.
"So you admit I distract you," he said, teasing me.
"What? No! What the heck are you talking about?"
"It’s what I’m getting from you."
"Stop acting like you know shit"
"Clearly, you’re blushing."
"That’s because the espresso machine is hot and I’m standing next to it."
"Mhm."
I stared at him.
He had just used Maya’s weapon against me. In my own workplace. Damien remained quiet, which was somehow more revealing than anything he might have said, his gaze locked onto mine with that intensity that had shifted since last night, looking less cold and more—something else I couldn’t quite name.
I turned back to the counter and finished the latte with all the focused energy of someone absolutely not having any kind of internal crisis. I got the temperature perfect, snapped the lid on with maybe a bit more force than necessary, and set it on the counter.
"There. Your coffee," I declared. "Take it and get out."
Damien reached for it, with that cute unbothered smile of his. As if he had unlocked some sort of happiness in his life by irritating me.
I let go at the same time his fingers brushed against mine. The touch was brief and ordinary in every sense, yet it sent a jolt up my arm that had me pulling back way too quickly.
Damien’s gaze flicked up to mine. He held it for a beat longer than casual and about three beats longer than I could handle, then the corner of his mouth moved again.
I concentrated on the receipt printer as if it were the most interesting thing in the world.
He picked up the cup, straightened, and before heading for the door, with that relaxed ease that suggested he had planned this out, he said:
"See you at home, Oliver."
Those words landed as heavily as if something was dropped from a height.
Home.
He said it like it was a shared thing, something that belonged to both of us, like the apartment where he had his rules, and I had my instant noodles, and we’d spent weeks quietly misunderstanding each other was simply, plainly home, casually mentioned like it had always been that way.
I stood behind the counter, watching him walk to the exit with his usual composed stride, and the bell jingled above as he left, with the café carrying on around me like nothing had happened.
For about five seconds, I didn’t move.
Maya popped up at my shoulder the way someone does when they’ve been waiting for just this moment.
"What," she asked, low and reverent, "was that?"
"I don’t know," I replied honestly.
"He came in here just to see you."
"Apparently."
"He said see you at home...what the fuck did that mean?!"
"I...uh..."
"You’ve got a lot of explaining to do young man! He looked at you like—" she paused, searching for words. "Like you were the only person in the room. The whole time. Oliver, I was standing right there and I felt invisible. He’s never even started a conversation with me before!"
I couldn’t think of anything to say to that.
Then I spotted the money. It was sitting next to the register, folded neatly, placed there at some point during the exchange that I hadn’t even registered.
Yay, a tip! I loved tips.
I picked it up, unfolded it...looked at it.
Then looked again.
"Maya," I said.
"Yeah?"
I held it up. "I think...he left a hundred dollars."
The sound she made was immediate and loud enough to draw the attention of a couple of tables.
"ONE HUNDRED—" she quickly dropped to a whisper and grabbed my arm with both hands. "He tipped you a hundred dollars on a latte?"
I stared at the bill.
A latte costs four dollars and seventy-five cents, so a hundred dollar tip on it wasn’t just impressive—it was a statement. It was Damien making a point with money, which was exactly the kind of thing he would do.
He apologized to me.
He wanted to start over.
He came to my workplace, teased me until I turned red, then casually said, see you at home, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And then he left a hundred dollars on the counter as he walked out.
I glanced toward the door where he had just exited, then back to the cash. Then back to the door again.
"Are you kidding me?" I muttered, completely overwhelmed. There’s no way this was happening right now...
Behind me, Maya let out a whistle loud enough that the blueberry muffin kid perked up from across the café.