Saturday mornings at the café do not begin gently. They begin like a storm that has been politely waiting all week to make landfall.

By eight-thirty, the bell above the door does not so much ring as it gasps for breath. Orders stack themselves in my mind before they even print. Oat milk latte. Double shot over ice. Vanilla sweet cream cold brew. Two matchas, one at 160 degrees because “last time it was lukewarm.” I move on instinct now, fingers gliding over the register screen, smile fixed into something pleasant and practiced.

Blake and I usually work the front together.

Today, I am alone.

Jay and Lia are in the back, the hiss of the espresso machine punctuating Jay’s low muttering as tickets multiply like rabbits in spring. Lia calls out cup sizes in a voice that remains suspiciously calm for someone drowning in caffeine fumes. They move in synchronized chaos. They are good at it.

We are a machine when we are fully assembled.

Today we are missing a part.

Jay leans halfway through the service window, flour dusting his sleeve. “Where’s Blake?”

I don’t look up from the register. I don’t need to. “Late. As usual.”

I say it lightly. Dismissively.

As if I haven’t already checked the door three times in the last minute.

The bell above the entrance chimes again.

And there he is.

Blake Kim does not enter a room. He slides into it   as if the world is slightly off-balance and he has decided to correct it with his presence. Pink hair a riot of soft chaos. Apron tied carelessly, one strap longer than the other. He smells faintly of laundry detergent and the outside air.

He is laughing at something on his phone, head tilted back, throat exposed.

Then he looks up.

Our eyes lock.

It is the briefest thing   a thread pulled taut between two points.

“Morning, Sunshine.”

I hate that nickname.

I hate the way he says it like it belongs to him. Like I belong to him.

“Don’t call me that,” I reply automatically, though the heat rising in my face betrays me.

He grins, entirely unrepentant, and steps behind the counter beside me as if he had always been there. The space shifts around him. It always does.

Jay makes a dramatic choking sound from the back. “Took you long enough!”

Blake ties his apron properly this time, leaning closer to me than necessary as he does. “Traffic.”

“You live ten minutes away,” I murmur.

“And yet,” he replies solemnly, tapping the register screen as if greeting an old friend.

The bell chimes again.

And then 

A roar.

The low, familiar thunder of an engine.

Through the window, I see it before I hear it fully   Jenna’s motorcycle pulling into its usual crooked spot near the curb. Black helmet. Black jacket. A presence that does not request attention but commands it.

The four of us, like children rehearsed in ritual, call out in unison as she steps inside.

“Morning, Mom!”

Jenna pauses mid-stride, removes her helmet, and fixes us with a look that is both exhausted and fond. “If one more customer hears you call me that, I’m docking your pay.”

“You wouldn’t,” Lia sings from the back.

Jenna arches a brow. “Test me.”

She surveys the café, the line nearly to the door, the ticket rail sagging   and nods once. “You good?”

“Yes,” we chorus again.

She rolls her eyes, but there’s approval beneath it. “Office. Try not to burn the place down.”

And just like that, she disappears behind the frosted glass door.

The rush swells.

Blake and I fall into rhythm. He takes orders while I handle payments, or vice versa. Our shoulders brush. His hand grazes mine when we reach for the same receipt. We do not comment on it.

We never do.

Half an hour passes in a blur.

And then he walks in.

You can feel certain people before you see them. The air shifts. Tightens.

He is middle-aged, dressed in a suit that strains slightly at the buttons, expression already irritated by existence itself. He steps to the counter without acknowledging the line.

I offer my practiced smile. “Good morning, sir. What can I get started for you?”

“A coffee,” he snaps.

“Yes, sir. What size?”

He sighs as if I have personally offended him. “Large.”

“Drip? Latte? Americano?”

“Coffee,” he repeats, slower this time. Louder. As though I am the problem.

Behind me, I sense Blake go still.

“I’ll get you a large drip,” I say evenly, fingers hovering over the screen.

“About time.”

He tosses cash onto the counter. It scatters slightly. I gather it carefully, counting aloud out of habit.

“That’s not what I gave you.”

I blink. “Sir?”

“You’re shorting me.”

“I’m not,” I reply, calm but firmer now. “You handed me ”

“Don’t lie.”

The word lands heavier than it should.

There are eyes on us now. Customers shifting uncomfortably. Jay’s machine goes quiet.

“I’m not lying,” I say, the edges of my composure thinning.

He leans forward, invading the counter space. “You kids think you can get away with anything.”

Blake steps closer beside me. “Sir, we can recount it if ”

“Stay out of it.”

His hand moves fast.

Too fast.

I feel it before I understand it   fingers tangling harshly in my hair, yanking backward. My scalp burns. The world tilts violently. Gasps erupt around us.

Pain explodes behind my eyes.

For a split second, I cannot breathe.

Then Blake is there.

Not hesitant. Not confused.

He grabs the man’s wrist with a force that surprises even me. His voice drops into something I have never heard before   low, controlled, lethal.

“Let him go.”

The man tries to shove him back, but Blake doesn’t budge. He plants himself between us, broad shoulders a wall. I stumble, catching myself on the counter, vision swimming.

The office door slams open.

Jenna moves like a storm breaking.

“What the hell is going on?”

The café is silent except for my pulse roaring in my ears.

“He grabbed him,” Blake says, not taking his eyes off the man.

Jenna doesn’t hesitate. “Out. Now.”

The man sputters and protests, but there is something in Jenna’s expression that does not invite argument. She steps closer, voice sharpened to a blade. “You put your hands on one of my kids again and I’ll make sure you regret it. Leave.”

He leaves.

The bell above the door rings once more   softer this time.

The café exhales.

Blake turns to me immediately. “Adrian.”

I nod too quickly. “I’m fine.”

I am not fine.

My scalp throbs. There is a strange warmth at the back of my head. My hands are shaking, though I tuck them beneath the counter so no one can see.

Jenna’s gaze softens slightly. “Take five.”

“I’m okay,” I insist.

“That wasn’t a suggestion.”

Blake doesn’t argue with her. He just watches me   eyes searching, worried in a way he’ll pretend later was just reflex.

“I’ll be in the break room,” I mutter.

I step away from the register, past the hum of resumed conversation, past the espresso machine starting up again, past Jay’s quiet, “You good?” and Lia’s frown.