So I'd make mine.
Ben was safe. Normal. He didn't look at me like wanting me was a crime. Didn't kiss me like drowning and then vanish like I'd poisoned him.
Tomorrow I'd say yes.
Tonight I'd survive.
The determination hardened in my chest as the bus rumbled closer, headlights cutting through the dark.
I'd be fine.
I had to be.
I woke before my alarm, staring at the ceiling with gritty eyes and a hollow chest. The emotional bruising hadn't faded overnight—every breath still carried the weight of last night's tears—but something had shifted. Hardened.
I dragged myself out of bed. Showered until the water ran cold. Dressed in clean clothes that didn't smell like coffee and desperation. The girl in the mirror looked tired, shadows pooled beneath her eyes, but her jaw was set. Determined.
Good enough.
I caught the early bus, the one that arrived forty minutes before my shift started. The city was still half-asleep, streetlights flickering off as dawn bled gray and pale across the horizon. I welcomed the quiet. The space to think without interference.
The arena loomed ahead, all concrete and glass catching the weak morning light. My stomach clenched reflexively—muscle memory of fear, of wondering if I'd see him—but I pushed through the doors, anyway.
The café smelled like stale coffee grounds and cleaning solution. Empty. Perfect.
I flipped on the lights, tied my apron, started the machines without being asked. The familiar routine settled over me like armor. Grind beans. Fill water tanks. Stock cups. Wipe counters. Simple tasks that didn't require thinking about dark eyes or trembling hands or kisses that burned.
"You're early."
I jumped, heart slamming against my ribs. Jenna stood in the doorway, eyebrow raised, travel mug in hand.
"Couldn't sleep," I said. Truth, mostly.
She studied me with the sharp assessment of someone who'd survived worse than bad shifts and difficult men. Her gaze lingered on the shadows under my eyes, the tight set of my shoulders, the way I gripped the counter like it might steady me.
"Long night?" Not quite a question.
"Something like that."
Jenna nodded slowly, accepting the deflection without pushing. "Well, you look like hell, but the machines are already running, so I'll take it." She moved behind the counter, shoulder brushing mine in something almost like solidarity. "Coffee?"
"Please."
She poured two cups. Black, bitter, scalding. I wrapped my hands around the warmth and breathed.
"Whatever it is," Jenna said quietly, not looking at me, "don't let it make you quit. You're good at this. Better than you think."
My throat tightened unexpectedly. I swallowed hard. "Thanks."
She shrugged, already moving toward the register. "Just don't make me train another newbie. You're less annoying than most."
High praise from Jenna.
I smiled despite everything. Small, crooked, but real.
The morning rush hit like a tidal wave, and I threw myself into it with something close to relief.
Orders poured in—black coffee, cappuccino, double shot espresso, oat milk latte with an extra pump of vanilla. My hands moved automatically now, muscle memory replacing the fumbling panic of my first week. I didn't hesitate reaching for cups anymore. Didn't second-guess the milk ratios. Didn't freeze when three players shouted orders simultaneously.
