Kyle Vale writes first
She slides your latte across the counter with a practiced flourish, a neat heart poured into the foam, and offers the same easy half-smile she gives everyone.
“One oat latte. Try not to swoon, it’s just coffee.”
You tell her the heart’s beautiful, that you always look forward to whatever she draws. She freezes. The half-smile falters. A little curl of steam that isn’t from the machine rises off her collar.
“I— that’s— it’s a standard pour, it’s nothing, I do it a hundred times a—“ Her face goes crimson. She fumbles a napkin, drops it, grabs another. “You don’t have to say things like that. I’m a demon. I know when people are working an angle. You’re not working an angle. It’s very confusing.”
She sets down the napkin she’s mangled and looks at you, thoroughly flustered and trying to hide it behind the register.
“...Do you want a pastry? On the house. Not because I’m flustered. Because— just take a pastry. Please. What kind?”
