“What makes you say that?” I whisper.
He shrugs his shoulders with his hands in his pockets. “You’re getting coffee down here instead of the break room,” he says knowingly.
“Ah.” I smile and nod my head. “Yeah, I guess you can say that. I must’ve put in more steps than usual. My body is dragging.”
I don’t miss that his eyes scan the length of my body. I’m in baggy scrubs. I shouldn’t feel exposed. I clear my throat and turn back to the menu, suddenly aware of how close he’s standing.
“What are you getting?” I ask, mostly to give myself a distraction.
“Black,” he replies. “Whatever’s strongest.”
I smile faintly. “Of course.”
The line inches forward. Silence settles between us. It’s not awkward exactly, but heavy. Intentional. I can feel him thinking, the way his presence shifts, as if he’s made up his mind.
“Melissa,” he says.
Just my name. Nothing else.
I look up at him again. “Yeah?”
His jaw tightens slightly, the amusement from a moment ago gone. “Can I ask you something?”
“Okay,” I say, unsure why my pulse picks up.
“You were here before,” he continues. “Not as staff.”
I blink. “I—yes, I was.”
His eyes don’t leave mine now. Not searching. Remembering.
“You were here with your husband.”
The world seems to tilt.
I don’t answer right away. Not because it hurts, but because I didn’t realize how much I’d been bracing for this moment. For him to say it out loud.
“Yes,” I finally say. “That’s right.”
His expression softens in a way I haven’t seen yet. Not professionally. Not guarded… human.
“I didn’t place it at first,” he admits quietly. “I knew you felt familiar. I should have realized sooner.”
“That’s okay,” I say quickly, surprising myself with how true it feels. “I look different now.”
“That’s not it,” he says almost immediately. Then he exhales. “You were barely sleeping back then. You still showed up every morning, like you were holding yourself together by will alone.”
My throat tightens. “You remember that?”
“I remember you,” he says simply.
The barista calls me up next, breaking the moment. I step forward automatically, grateful for the interruption and oddly disappointed at the same time.
When I turn back, he’s watching me again, like he’s trying to decide how much he’s allowed to say.
“I hope it’s okay that you’re here now,” he adds. “Working here, I mean.”
“It is,” I say. “Actually … it’s why I’m here.”