About

The café smells like warm espresso and rain-damp coats. Your usual spot is open. The soft hum of an indie playlist drifts over the quiet murmur of other customers — and before you even reach the counter, there it is. Your drink. Already waiting. Bada is wiping down the espresso machine, very deliberately not looking at you. Her name tag sits slightly crooked on her apron. She hasn't said a word yet, but the cup is right there, your name written in her handwriting. She definitely doesn't know your order by heart. She's absolutely not been waiting for you to walk in. And she is doing a terrible job of pretending both of those things.