MUSIC. FASHION. FILM.

It was the midday lull, leaving the cafe smelling of scorched oat milk and bleach. Patrick Zweig leaned against the back-counter prep station, his back aching from a six-hour stretch behind the bar. It was a physical misery he was still barely accustomed to; a daily reminder of his mother's icy ultimatum and the Mercedes he'd totaled over a month ago.

He was supposed to be miserable here. He wanted to be miserable here.

But then, there was her. Y/N, or Honey as he liked to call her, sitting on a stool near the counter as she bit into a bagel.

"Darcy is furious with me," she announced to the empty room, her voice carrying that unfiltered cadence that Patrick had grown dangerously accustomed to over the last month. "I didn't leave him enough kibble this morning. I can feel his psychic judgement from three miles away."

Patrick didn't even look up from wiping his portafilter, but a lazy smirk automatically hooked the corner of his mouth. "Maybe your cat just realizes his mother has a chronic lack of boundaries, Honey."

"My boundaries are immaculate," she shot back, pointing a half-eaten bagel at him. "I simply choose to show my aura with the world."

Patrick let out a low snort, shaking his head. He had spent the first two weeks of this job trying to turn her into an adversary just so he wouldn't have to feel guilty about being a pompous asshole. He had weaponized that stupid nickname specifically to bait her, to draw a line in the sand between his arrogant, high-society frustration and her genuine, people-pleasing sweetness.

The problem was, her defenses were completely broken—mostly because she didn't have any. She was just entirely, unapologetically herself.

A bell chimed over the door. A regular customer, a notoriously wealthy, demanding woman from the upscale high-rises down the street, marched up to the counter. Patrick braced himself, preparing the practiced introduction, but Y/N was already scrambling to stand from her stool.

"Welcome to the Daily Grind! What can I get started for you?" She greeted, her voice bright her exhaustion.

The woman didn't return the smile. She adjusted her designer sunglasses and tapped a manicured nail on the glass display. "An iced, half-calf, extra-hot Macchiato. And make sure it's actually hot this time. The girl who made it yesterday—some little blonde thing—practically gave me frozen milk."

Patrick tensed. He had made that drink yesterday, rushing the order after a fight with his mother.

But before he could take the blame, Y/N nodded heavily at the woman, looking her straight in the eye with absolute, deadpan seriousness. "Yes, the blonde girl. I will personally make sure she is banished to the back room to scrub the ice machine for her crimes against espresso."

The woman blinked, completely thrown off by the professional response.

Patrick had to physically press his knuckles against his mouth to strangle a laugh. Patrick was a brunette, with a bit of faded pink in the dark strands from a dare done ages ago. There was no blonde girl employed at the cafe. Y/N was actively fabricating a fictional employee, all while looking entirely calm.

"Anyway!" She said, turning on her heels to grab a cup. "One Macchiato, coming right up." Her apron snagged on the counter edge, making her stumble. She didn't notice, but Patrick's eyes instinctively darted to her apron. Scattered aesthetically around her name tag was her pin collection—an assortment of embroidered flowers, movie quotes, and a Snoopy pin that she polished dutifully after every shift.

Y/N began a humming a song under her breath, pumping vanilla syrup with a practiced ease.

Patrick watched her; really watched her.

He looked at the way her hair fell along her back, the stains of chalk from the writing on the blackboard on her hands, and the protective way she had just shielded him from a rude customer without even realizing she was doing it. She didn't know he had messed up that drink yesterday. She was just being Y/N, protecting the peace, pleasing the room, and being wonderfully strange.

A sudden, terrifying warmth bloomed in Patrick's chest, heavy and violent enough to knock the breath right out of him.

The smug, defensive armor he had worn like a shield since the day he crashed his car suddenly felt incredibly stifling. He didn't want to be above this place anymore. He didn't want to be the pompous rich kid dropping shifts out of spite. He just wanted to stand in this small, coffee scented bubble and watch her short-circuit the world for as long as she'd let him.

"Hey," Patrick murmured, stepping up beside her and smoothly taking the milk pitcher from her hand. His fingers brushed against hers, and this time, his chest did a ridiculous, catastrophic flip. "I've got this. Go sit back down before your back gives out entirely."

Y/N blinked at him, her brow furrowing in that familiar squint. "Patrick Zweig being nice? Someone call the press, we need this documented and shown to everyone in a five mile radius."

Patrick forced himself not to laugh, desperately trying to hide the fact that his heart was currently hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He leaned down a fraction closer, his eyes lingering on the bright spark in her gaze.

"Just steam the milk, Honey," he drawled, his voice still carrying that same dryness, but was a bit softer than usual.

She rolled her eyes, shuffling back to her stool with a few quips, but Patrick just smiled into espresso steam. The rivalry was still there, but as he watched her draw on the crowded blackboard, Patrick knew he was completely, truly, utterly, fucked.