Lia’s smile stretches wide in a heartbeat. “Oh, I’m into that.” My reflex is to say no, but before I can get the words out, Blake finally turns my way. There’s something in his face, impossible to pin down. “Alright,” he says, just like that. Whatever odd thing flickered between us doesn’t vanish; it morphs instead.

Suddenly it’s competition. A charge in the air, humming with tension and the kind of buzz you only get when things could tip either way. Jay claps once,sharp, eager. “Excellent. Show us what you’ve got.” That’s when it clicks: this isn’t about coffee anymore, not really.

The rules. Jay makes them up as he goes along (classic). One signature drink each. Ten minutes on the clock. Customers cast their votes.

“Winner gets bragging rights,” Lia chimes in with a mischievous glint. “Winner gets next Friday night off closing shift,” Jay tacks on immediately. Blake raises an eyebrow at him. “That was never part of this.” Jay shrugs, grinning wider now: “It is now.” The crowd perks up at ‘contest’. People love drama; they want teams to root for and someone to cheer on.

Without another glance my way, Blake heads straight for the espresso machine like he owns gravity itself. I claim the opposite station, a clear line drawn right down the middle of our workspace,and suddenly every inch between us feels intentional somehow. I shake out my shoulders once or twice; there’s still a dull throb echoing through my skull from earlier (thanks again for that towel, no more blood at least).. The ache lingers anyway,a quiet echo of him and whatever went unsaid back there. Focus now.

I grab a chilled steel pitcher and start steaming milk, tuning my ear to that razor-fine pitch: too shrill means scorched milk; too low means lifeless foam nobody wants to drink. There’s real craft here, you learn temperature by instinct alone and texture purely by sound after enough nights behind this bar. Across from me. Blake moves with maddening calm,the guy always looks like nothing costs him effort at all. Pink hair flopping across his eyes (again), brushing it away with one wrist while his jaw locks tight in total focus.

Honestly. He’s infuriatingly good at this game, and he knows it too well for comfort. Meanwhile Jay keeps up his running commentary like we’re starring in some caffeine-fueled boxing match: “In our left corner,Adrian Park. Walking encyclopedia!” I shoot him a glare under my breath: “Shut up.” “And on the right, Blake Kim. Human chaos theory!” Blake just quirks one side of his mouth, but stays silent as ever.

My hands move almost automatically: weighing fresh beans out by feel alone, tamping them smooth and even before locking everything into place with muscle memory only baristas have nightmares about forgetting how to do right before opening rushes hit hard on Mondays. The espresso machine roars alive beneath me; dark syrup pours down steady as promise into waiting cups below. My creation tonight. Lavender honey latte,all subtlety layered atop patience upon patience until balance settles somewhere soft inside your chest if you let it. It takes time because nuance does, that’s just how these things work best.

Blake predictably grabs chocolate syrup plus orange zest without missing a beat,of course those are his weapons of choice. He builds flavors loud first then cleans them up later, a conversation style turned recipe book if I’ve ever seen one. Risking a look sideways,I spot rolled sleeves dusted white where milk foam streaks near his wrist (he wipes it off against his apron absent-mindedly). Every ounce of attention locked onto what sits right in front of him, never hesitating,not even once. And honestly.

Maybe what stings most is knowing I’m why everything crackles so sharply tonight, the memory snaps back uninvited: Don’t do that,you can’t just grab me like that, Those words sting sharper now than when they left my mouth back there. He meant well,I know, but admitting something out loud lands differently than understanding quietly inside yourself doesn’t it. Lavender syrup swirls slow-motion around warm espresso at the bottom of my cup, bleeding color until everything blends together perfectly imperfect, and as I pour milk slow enough for nerves, the foam coaxes itself into a single centered rosette; precision equals control (and control has always felt safest). Blake sits across from me, making a show of it as he grates dark chocolate in loose ribbons over the whipped cream. He balances an orange peel at just the right angle on the rim, fancy touch.

Jay’s hands come together again, sharp and theatrical. “Time!” Glasses hit the counter in unison. A handful of customers lean forward, all eager eyes and anticipation thick in the air. Blake gestures toward his creation first. “Mocha Valencia,” he announces, confident as ever.

“Bitterness meets sweetness, citrus slices through it all,a real jolt.” I don’t dress mine up much; no need to oversell what already speaks for itself. “Lavender honey latte,” I say quietly. “Smooth, mellow, balanced.” Jay throws me a look, eyebrow cocked high enough to be a joke or maybe a dare. “Very on brand.” The first customer takes a sip of Blake’s drink and their face lights up,one brow arched in surprise, mouth forming an honest-to-God wow before they even say it out loud. The next person tries mine instead; there’s this small pause you could miss if you weren’t listening for it, a softer sound escapes them: low approval humming under their breath.

Then comes voting time,and let me tell you, this round is razor-thin close; closer than I’d braced myself for (shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up). One vote tips it Blake’s way, just one single tally more than mine. Jay celebrates like we’re at some championship game: arms flung skyward as he shouts out victory for everyone to hear. Lia claps with mock grandeur and demands a speech (“Speech!”), but instead of basking in glory or rubbing salt into my ego’s wounds, Blake glances sideways at me,not gloating at all. For half a heartbeat I brace myself anyway, but that twist never lands.

“Adrian’s was better technically,” he says flatly,not grandstanding or apologizing either, just laying down facts like cards on the table before walking away from them entirely. “Mine just made more noise.” And honestly. That hits somewhere unexpected inside my chest because nobody asked him to throw that olive branch; he could’ve soaked up every ounce of attention if he’d wanted. Jay groans dramatically about humility ruining good theater, but by then,damage done (or maybe something else repaired?). Either way something shifts beneath my ribs, a knot tightening where pride used to sit easy,and suddenly wiping down my station feels necessary even though not a crumb remains.

By late afternoon things slow down, the sunlight spilling wider through dusty windows now that most people have drifted off elsewhere and only old playlists fill the space between us baristas left behind: Jay off counting boxes somewhere back-of-house; Lia gone on break without fanfare; somehow leaving only Blake and me holding down opposite ends of the counter. No spark crackles between us anymore,it feels less charged now…more uncertain if anything else. He leans his weight against stainless steel with arms folded loose around himself. “You okay?” No accusation there, just checking. My instinct wants armor so I straighten up fast: “I said I’m fine.” A nod from him,a simple acknowledgment.

Silence fills whatever gap follows. But beneath everything else sits an apology weighted heavy just below my heart where swallowing does nothing except make it sharper. He didn’t earn any blame here, that much is obvious,but saying so would mean giving ground I’m not sure how to give yet or what exactly gets surrendered along with those words anyway. After too many beats pass I force out what sticks: “You didn’t have to say that.” He looks puzzled, or maybe just waiting,for clarification. “Say what?” “That mine was better technically.” Shoulders lift almost imperceptibly, a gesture halfway between acceptance and dismissal.

“It was.” “That wasn’t really…” My voice trails off because finding fault isn’t why we’re standing here anymore.. He studies me closely,not defensive now but thoughtful instead, as though measuring which pieces are worth picking up after today’s contest winds down. “You’re allowed bad days sometimes, Adrian.” His words land harder than they should,they stick longer too, even though they shouldn’t matter so much coming from him specifically right now. I drop my gaze first,the floor easier company than meeting his eyes straight-on while guilt stirs quietly under everything else bubbling near the surface. “I wasn’t spiraling,” slips out quieter still, not quite convincing anyone least of all myself,but he doesn’t push back (which somehow makes sitting with it worse).

“I just…” It hangs unfinished, I swallow whatever comes next rather than letting vulnerability escape unchecked into open air between us both. Eventually Blake pushes himself upright again: “We good?” The answer ought to be automatic,we go back far enough these kinds of scuffs shouldn’t rattle anything important, but truth is something tiny got knocked loose during our break room showdown earlier…and neither one of us knows quite how to name it yet let alone fix it outright.