Jenna made a sound of agreement from where she restocked the pastry case. "I mean, he's eased up since getting married, but…"
"Okay," I said quietly. "Thanks."
"No problem." His easy smile returned, genuine warmth behind it. "We look out for each other here. Well—" He gestured vaguely at Jenna and himself. "The café crew does, anyway. Players are another species."
A laugh escaped before I could stop it—real, surprised, the tension in my shoulders easing fractionally.
Ben grinned wider, like he'd won something.
The afternoon stretched easier after that. Ben worked beside me with the kind of comfortable competence that came from repetition, chattering about classes and traffic and the tragically bad coffee at the student union. Normal things. Safe things. The kind of casual conversation I hadn't realized I'd been starving for.
He didn't ask invasive questions. Didn't push when I stayed quiet. Just filled the space with lighthearted commentary that made the work feel less overwhelming.
Solid. That was the word for him. Grounded in a way that invited trust without demanding it.
Exactly the kind of person I should be interacting with. Uncomplicated. Predictable. No shadows lurking behind his easy smiles or careful distance masking something darker.
I caught myself wondering what it would be like to have a friend again. Real friendship, not the transactional kind born from necessity or proximity. Someone who'd text stupid memes between shifts or grab coffee somewhere that wasn't work. Someone who made me remember what normal felt like.
The thought ached more than it should have.
The lull hit around three, the café emptying except for a couple of players scrolling through their phones in the corner booth. Ben hummed something off-key while restocking napkins. Jenna had disappeared into the back office to handle inventory.
I grabbed the sanitizer spray and started wiping down the condiment station, falling into the mindless rhythm of the task.
Then cold prickled across the back of my neck. Sharp. Immediate. The kind of sensation that bypassed logic and went straight to instinct.
My hand stilled mid-wipe, cloth pressed against stainless steel. Heart kicked hard against my ribs—once, twice, too fast.
I straightened slowly and turned.
The café looked exactly as it had thirty seconds ago. Same players in the corner. Same empty tables. Same fluorescent lights humming overhead. Nothing out of place.
But the hallway…
Movement caught my peripheral vision. A shadow shifting near the corridor entrance, tall and dark, there and gone so quickly I couldn't be sure I'd seen anything at all.
The bell above the door chimed.
I flinched, pulse spiking—but the door stayed closed. No one entering. No one leaving. Just the bell swaying slightly on its spring, metal catching the light.
My breath came shallow.
Stop it.
I forced my shoulders down, gripping the cloth tighter. This was ridiculous. Paranoid. Just leftover adrenaline from this morning's disaster, my nervous system still keyed up and looking for threats that didn't exist.
No one was watching me. No one cared enough to watch me.
I turned back to the condiment station and resumed wiping, movements sharper than necessary.
But the sensation didn't fade. It clung to my spine like static electricity—that primal awareness of being observed. The weight of attention I couldn't see but felt pressing against my skin.
I knew this feeling. Had learned to recognize it young, in a house where being watched meant danger.
My hands trembled as I set down the spray bottle.
Just nerves. Just stress. Just nothing.
