Page 20 of Blades Out
The café had gotten busier while we'd talked—players lingering over protein shakes, staff grabbing quick coffees between meetings. I fell into the rhythm automatically. Wiping down counters. Stocking cups. Taking orders with the same polite smile I'd practiced in the mirror this morning.
But my hands trembled every time the bell above the door chimed.
I kept glancing toward the hallway where Rhys had disappeared. Empty every time. Just fluorescent lights and scuffed linoleum stretching toward the offices and locker rooms beyond.
My stomach refused to settle, churning with something I couldn't name. Anxiety, maybe. Or residual adrenaline from the morning's disaster.
Don't make this into something.
I scrubbed at an invisible stain on the counter, movements sharper than necessary.
He probably forgot your face already. You're one barista in a building full of people. It meant nothing.
But cruel wasn't the word that came to mind when I thought about the way he'd looked at me across that desk. Distant, yes. Controlled. But underneath that careful neutrality, something almost protective in the deliberate steadiness of his voice.
You're being ridiculous.
I was. Obviously. Letting my imagination spiral over a two-minute conversation with a man who'd shown me basic human decency by not firing me for an accident.
The bell chimed again.
I flinched, breath catching—but it was just a player I didn't recognize, tall and grinning, all easy confidence as he approached the counter.
Not him.
I forced my shoulders to relax and smiled. "What can I get you?"
But even as I took the order, even as I fell back into the safe routine of work, I couldn't shake the feeling that this morning had meant something I didn't have words for yet. Something that terrified me more than losing my job ever could.
The lunch rush thinned around one-thirty, leaving the café in that strange post-battle quiet where everyone moved a little slower and breathed a little deeper. My feet ached. My hands smelled like burned espresso and sanitizer. But I'd survived.
Jenna wiped down the espresso machine with the kind of efficiency that came from muscle memory. "You did okay," she said without looking at me. "Better than most first days."
Before I could respond, the back door swung open and someone new walked in—early twenties, tousled brown hair that looked like he'd rolled out of bed twenty minutes ago, backpack slung over one shoulder. He had the kind of face that invited trust immediately: open expression, easy smile, eyes that crinkled at the corners like he laughed often.
He spotted Jenna first. "Hey, boss lady."
"You're late."
"Traffic." He dropped his backpack behind the counter and grabbed an apron from the hook. "Also stopped for coffee."
"You work in a café."
"Yeah, but our coffee tastes like burned regret." He tied the apron with practiced movements, then turned and saw me for the first time.
His eyebrows lifted slightly. "Oh. New girl."
Heat crept up my neck. "Hi."
"Ben." He offered his hand across the counter, smile widening. "Part-timer. Full-time student. Professional disaster."
I shook his hand, surprised by the warmth of it. "Olivia."
"Olivia," he repeated, like testing the name. His gaze flicked to Jenna, then back to me. "Rough first morning?"
My laugh came out awkward, strangled. "How'd you know?"
"You've got that look." He moved around the counter, sliding into the space beside Jenna with the ease of someone who'd worked here long enough to know every inch. "Wide eyes. Death grip on the rag. Plus Jenna's using her 'don't screw up again' voice, which means something interesting happened."
