He woke before the morning light fully brightened.The cube’s temperature held steady—comfortable enough that he didn’t have to brace himself to get up.

  Routine.That was the word he repeated in his head as he sat up, folded the thin bnkets, and stacked them neatly in the corner. Routine meant control. Routine meant he didn’t have to think deeply.

  He cleaned his face and hands at the sink, careful to ration the cleanser this time, each pump deliberate. The cold against his skin made him flinch awake.A quick sniff at the water confirmed it was still the same chemical mix as before—soap, pstic, something sharp underneath—but it got the job done.

  Breakfast came next: one protein packet, one half-empty water bottle. He chewed, swallowed, forced it down. The taste didn’t matter; it was something to do.

  The shop menu gave a soft chime before a banner scrolled across the screen: “Shop Refresh.”A few new items popped up here and there, but what caught his attention were the small excmation marks beside every category.

  For the first time in days, he felt a spark of something dangerously close to excitement.

  He opened the first tab—Food & Drink.New options blinked at the top of the list.

  Gourmet Ration — 18 crBottom Biscuit — 8 cr

  Whatever that meant.

  Still, it was something different. A little more variety. The sight alone made his stomach tighten in cautious excitement—like seeing color after days of gray.

  Next, he opened Hygiene & Cleaning.A few new listings blinked into view, two of note:

  Bucket Toilet Upgrade (Comfort Model 03) — Upgrades existing 02 model — 25 crLavender-Scented Shampoo — 15 cr

  He stared at the shampoo listing longer than he meant to.He’d wished for more food options, and got them.He’d wished for shampoo, and here it was.

  Each small answer felt deliberate, like the system was listening—just enough to make him believe it might care.

  He swallowed, thumb hovering as he opened the next tab.

  Clothing & Personal Care.If it had granted the other two, maybe—just maybe—it had finally heard that wish too.

  Two new items blinked onto the list:

  Basic Makeup Kit — 20 crThe kind of set a teenager might get as their first “welcome to womanhood” gift.

  And beneath it—

  Converse Sneakers — 80 cr

  He let out a shaky little ugh.Ignoring the first, this one almost counted as progress. The shoes were technically gender-neutral.He could almost convince himself the system was meeting him halfway.

  Feeling a little hollow but still oddly excited, he kept scrolling.Each tab shimmered with new listings—small changes, small promises—but his eyes caught on something unfamiliar at the bottom of the screen.

  Powered Devices & Chargers.

  He blinked.That was new.

  He read through the entries under his breath, the words barely louder than a hum.“Compact battery-generator, forty credits… overhead light sor film, twenty-eight… foot-pedal flywheel, thirty-two…”His eyes lingered on one: bounce seat piston, thirty. He mouthed the words like they might make sense if he said them aloud.

  Then came the little luxuries—“mini water kettle, clip-on desk fan, LED ntern… even a credit cube generator? Fifty credits?”

  This opened a lot of new possibilities. He’d need the battery generator first—none of the others would work without it. The listing said it came with a small hand crank, but realistically, he’d have to buy one of the chargers too.

  The bounce-seat piston sounded… interesting, though the foot pedal flywheel felt more practical. The sor film could be good as backup, though the charge rate looked painfully low.

  Still, the idea of generating credits inside his own cube—it was hard not to fixate on that. The Credit Cube Generator burned through battery fast, but even so…

  He sighed. Either way, he’d need to save at least a couple hundred credits before any of it mattered. He had more immediate concerns.

  Those concerns happened to be the two best options out of everything he’d seen: the Thermal Micro-Tent for sixty credits, and the Wooden Wash Tub for twenty-five.

  They’d make his tiny eight-by-eight cube feel even smaller, but both felt like actual necessities. A proper bath—alone, without the system watching—would do wonders for his sanity.

  And the tent… privacy. Finally, something more than just a bnket draped over himself. He could have space to breathe, to change, to… handle his nightly routine without pretending it didn’t exist.

  He gnced at the weather bar scrolling along the terminal. Forecast said the temperature would dip again tomorrow. The tent was insuted.That decided it.

  He hadn’t brushed his teeth yet, but once he did, that would leave him with seventy-five credits to his name.

  It felt doable. If he pyed it right, he could probably earn around forty credits in a day.If he risked the Random Job, maybe even more—though that didn’t feel like a good option.

  He sat up a little straighter at the thought. This was doable.

  He opened the job menu.

  The top icon shimmered—not the usual dull white, but gold. For a second, he thought it was a glitch. Then the bel unfurled in crisp lettering, elegant and rare:

  COFFEE HOUSE (RARE).

  His breath caught. A rare job? He didn’t even know those existed.

  A pulse jumped in his throat. I know this.

  Back home, he used to measure mornings by tamp pressure and crema height; behind that battered La Marzocco, he’d actually felt competent—maybe even confident.

  The cube had taken his privacy, his trousers, his dignity—but not the muscle memory. That was his. Still his.

  He tapped the icon. A short description blinked across the screen:

  HIGH CREDITS – TIPS ENABLED

  His heart gave a small, ridiculous leap. Maybe—just maybe—something normal.

  If I can still pour a half-decent rosetta, I’m not completely remade.

  He forced a crooked grin, voice low and dry.“Maybe dressed like this I’ll pull the biggest tips of my life—tips I actually want this time.”

  The words hung there.He winced at himself, a half-hearted cringe that almost passed for a smile.

  The elevator chimed to life as he accepted the job.

  COFFEE HOUSE:

  He arrived in the café module.

  Herringbone vinyl underfoot; the air faintly sweet with fresh roast. Behind the counter, an espresso machine waited — sleek, silent, too clean to have ever been used.

  A small wooden sign sat on the counter, flipped to Be Back Soon.

  To his right, a handful of living dolls occupied the tables — chatting softly, stirring cups that steamed pleasantly. They looked startlingly normal compared to the fwless bodies at the brothel: average faces, faint blemishes, casual postures. That almost made them worse.

  A nervous prickle climbed his neck. He quickened his pace, slipping behind the counter — safer there, or at least it felt that way.

  Behind the counter waited the kind of setup he knew by heart: a twin-group espresso machine gleaming under soft light, grinder beside it like an old friend. Gss jars of beans lined the back wall beside potted vines, and a pour-over stand sat ready with its slender gooseneck kettle.

  A small fridge hummed beneath the counter — probably milk inside, though who knew what this pce served.

  He ran his fingers along the counter’s smooth woodgrain—different yout, but the same rhythm. Machine to grinder to tamping mat, all in reach. Whoever designed this had known what they were doing.

  Steam that isn’t weaponized.The earthy hiss of real roast instead of nutrient sludge.The small, grounding ritual of wiping a portafilter clean—not because it needs it, but because it feels right to do.

  The image nded like a lifeline.Nerves still sparked under his skin—he was in a skirt, bare thighs catching the faint warmth from the machine, and the ghost of that st doll’s grin still lingered—but the pull of familiarity was stronger than shame.

  For the first time in days, Ashe felt something close to safe.

  He let muscle memory take over.Beans—already ground fine, too fine—but he tamped light, adjusted by instinct. Steam curled, smelling faintly of vender from the syrup bottle beside the machine. A vender-vanil cortado, something he’d come up with during finals week back home, equal parts comfort and caffeine. His coworkers had liked it enough to talk the boss into adding it to the menu.

  He poured a small rosetta out of habit, even though no one was watching.

  The first sip made his chest ache—sweet, floral, something real amid the synthetic madness of the cubes.

  For a few heartbeats, it didn’t matter where he was.

  He took a slightly anxious, slightly excited breath and flipped the wooden sign on the counter to NOW ACCEPTING CUSTOMERS.

  A living doll entered moments ter—as if on cue—through the same elevator doors he had arrived through.Tall, slim, business-casual. The kind of man you’d expect to see at 8 a.m. in a real café, checking his watch before a meeting. His stride was calm, unhurried, right up to the counter.

  “Good morning,” Ashe said automatically, the old rhythm sliding into pce. “What can I get started for you?”

  The doll smiled faintly. “Cappuccino. Oat milk.” His voice was normal. Human, even.

  “Coming right up.”

  Ashe set to work, the familiar sequence taking over—purge the group head, dose, tamp, lock, pull. The sound alone steadied him; for the first time in days, his hands didn’t shake.

  He risked a little small talk while the milk frothed. “You from around here?”

  No answer. The doll’s smile didn’t move, eyes focused somewhere beyond him.

  “Guess not,” Ashe muttered, forcing a chuckle. Maybe that line wasn’t part of its script.But as he watched the doll’s eyes track the cup in his hand—zy, precise, almost thoughtful—he wasn’t sure.They moved like a person’s. Reacted like a person’s.Were they alive? Or just good at pretending?

  He slid the cup across the counter anyway.

  The doll nodded, the gesture small but deliberate. “Thank you,” he said—words so ordinary they almost startled Ashe. Then, with a smooth motion, he reached into his pocket and pulled out two coin-like tokens. They clinked softly as they dropped into the tip jar.

  Ashe blinked. For a second, he forgot to breathe.They looked like arcade coins—ft, gold-tinted, stamped with some looping insignia he didn’t recognize. Real currency.So that’s what credits look like in here.He hadn’t expected there to even be a physical version. Odd, but… kind of satisfying. Something tangible in a pce that barely felt real.

  When he gnced up again, the doll had already chosen a seat—across the room, away from the others. The tables along the far wall were still occupied, low chatter and porcein clinks threading through the air. But this one—this man—moved to the opposite wall, to a lounge space Ashe hadn’t noticed before: soft chairs, a coffee table, and a brick firepce quietly alive with fme.

  The firelight danced against the dark wood and stone, flickering over the doll’s calm expression as he sat down.

  Orders came in—ft white, iced mocha, americano, chai. Each new doll mirrored the st: polite, precise, just human enough to fool him if he didn’t listen too hard. Ashe worked on instinct, pulling shots, steaming milk, wiping down the counter between drinks.

  The ctter of cups and the low hum of the machines built into a rhythm that almost felt real—something like a morning rush, something like before.

  A few of them left tokens in the jar, a few didn’t. None spoke beyond their orders. Their eyes moved like people’s, their smiles practiced, their gestures learned—but behind it all was that quiet hollowness, like a recording waiting for its cue.

  Still, Ashe kept serving. The repetition kept him grounded.

  When the next customer approached—a doll in a bright sundress—Ashe’s eyes caught on the fabric before he could stop himself. It moved like sunlight made wearable, cheerful and careless in a way that felt almost cruel here.

  The doll cleared her throat—delicate, but deliberate.

  Ashe blinked and looked up, heat rushing to his face. He’d been staring too long, a malebrained mistake.

  “Sorry,” he blurted, grasping for dignity. “I just—nice dress.”

  Her head tilted slightly. The motion was small, polite. But for the first time, he thought he caught something in those gssy white eyes—a flicker of amusement, maybe even awareness.

  Then she giggled, soft and almost human. “Surely you could pull the look off better than I.”

  Ashe froze. For a second, he couldn’t tell whether she was teasing him or mocking him.

  He forced a thin customer-service smile. “Thanks. Can I get you started with something?”

  The doll hesitated just long enough for it to feel deliberate. Her teeth caught her lower lip, a strangely practiced motion.

  “Yes,” she said at st, her voice dipping into something almost coy. “That would be lovely. How about you make me whatever your favorite drink is?”

  Ashe blinked, a little caught off guard. “Coming right up,” he said, voice steadier than he felt.

  He turned toward the machine, letting the familiar rhythm take over. The hiss of steam, the measured tamp, the sweet, drifting scent of vender and vanil. The motion was grounding, almost meditative. He poured the cortado with care, watching the milk bloom into the dark surface until the rosetta took shape.

  He slid the cup across the counter.The doll cradled it with both hands, lowering her face to the rim. She inhaled slowly, eyes lifting to meet his and never breaking contact.“Lavender,” she murmured. “And a hint of vanil.”

  Her tongue flicked briefly across her lips before she took a sip. The reaction was immediate—her expression brightened with genuine delight, almost too human.“It’s delicious,” she said softly. “It feels like I got to know you on a deeper level.”

  A knot tightened in Ashe’s chest. He scratched lightly at his throat, forcing a polite nod. “Gd you like it.”

  The doll’s gaze dropped to the tip jar, then back to him. “Come talk to me after your shift if you want a tip.”

  The smile she gave him was calm, kind, and somehow more unsettling than the openly predatory ones had been.

  Ashe watched her walk away, trying to decide whether that exchange had been scripted—or if something behind those gssy irises had really seen him.

  Ashe wondered if she had been flirting with him—or if she’d only thought he was flirting with her. That possibility calmed him a little; it was better than the alternative.

  Funny, he mused. The idea of a girl flirting with me would usually be the thing that makes me panic, not calm me down.

  He’d never had much luck with women—never really knew how to make the connection he wanted. Maybe that was why this whole exchange rattled him more than it should’ve. Maybe these dolls were designed to read him somehow, to respond to what he wanted without him realizing he’d asked for it.

  And what had he been wanting since coming here? Hell, even before?Connection. Touch. Intimacy. Someone looking at him like he mattered.

  The thought made him uneasy. If the system could read that, could it read everything else too?

  He turned back toward the counter, wiping down the workstation, cloth tracing slow, nervous circles. His reflection in the espresso machine warped and wavered as he worked—enough to make him look like someone else for half a second.

  The thought pulled at him—unwelcome but impossible to shake. He’d already seen proof that this pce could reach inside him. Like the apartment before it, like someone had copied real life from memory and built it just for him.

  If the system could do that, what couldn’t it do?

  He forced a slow breath, grounding himself—then the elevator chimed, breaking his concentration.

  Another customer stepped through: a somewhat portly man in a business vest, wire-rimmed gsses glinting under the café lights. Ashe gnced over his shoulder. “Welcome in,” he called. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  He turned back to the counter, focused on a stubborn stain that refused to lift. The cloth squeaked in protest as he scrubbed harder, leaning into each stroke until his whole body rocked with the motion.

  Halfway through, the sensation crept up his spine—the one he’d begun to recognize all too well since coming here. Being watched. Not casually, not politely. Eyes burrowing into him.

  Ashe froze mid-scrub and gnced over his shoulder again.The man hadn’t moved. His gaze was fixed—low—behind the round glint of wire-rimmed spectacles.

  “Sorry,” Ashe said, forcing his voice steady. “Just one second.”

  At the sound, the man’s head jerked slightly; his eyes—bnk, pupil-less—snapped upward to meet Ashe’s. Even without irises, Ashe could tell exactly where he’d been staring.

  The doll gave a slow, almost polite nod.

  A shiver crawled up his spine.Is this what girls feel like when they get checked out?

  The thought clung to him—embarrassing, but also… strange.Did these dolls even care about gender? Back home, his friends used to joke about him having a “girly butt,” but no one actually wanted a boy’s butt, right?The stares he’d gotten here told a different story.

  Some of the dolls seemingly had mixed genders, or none at all. Whatever the system had built them to be, it wasn’t bound by the same rules.

  He felt his cheeks warm.If they don’t care either way… does it matter?

  The idea left him queasy—and curious. A dangerous, flickering curiosity that sat low in his stomach and refused to leave.

  He decided to copy what Monica and some of his other female coworkers used to do to earn extra tips—little things: the way they leaned forward when talking, the practiced smile and casual hair tuck when handing a cup across the counter.

  Or the way they’d find excuses to bend over just a little too often. Ashe had an excuse now. The thought made his face warm, but he didn’t stop it.

  Ashe leaned into the washcloth with his body weight, making sure to arch his back to stick out his rear more than was necessary. He went back to scrubbing. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing even though he had seen the girls do it hundreds of times. Am I being too obvious? Maybe not obvious enough? He thought.

  His body moved before his mind could second-guess it. Ashe pressed down harder, the fabric squeaking faintly under his hand as he drew slow circles with the cloth. His back arched further, hips tracing a small, unsteady rhythm — back, forward, back again. Five seconds. Maybe ten. Long enough for the heat to rise up his neck and make his breath hitch.

  He kept going, caught between focus and the strange rhythm of his own movements, until the stain finally came out.

  He could feel the tips of his ears burning. I can’t believe I just did that.

  With a short breath to steady himself and an awkward smile pstered on his face, he turned around——and found himself face-to-face with the bespectacled man.

  When their eyes met, Ashe’s awkward smile bloomed into a full-blown, toothy grin. The man looked far more flustered than Ashe did—cheeks flushed pink, dabbing at his forehead with a gold-embroidered handkerchief. Some might have found the sight unsettling, but Ashe couldn’t help finding it endearing.

  I’ve been in his pce before, he thought. I probably looked that goofy when I asked out Monica.

  The idea of being on the other side of that exchange thrilled him—it felt like discovering a hidden superpower. “How can I help you, mister?” Ashe asked, grin widening.

  The man stammered out his order—or at least tried to. “P-p-pour over, please.”

  Riding his high, Ashe pushed it further. He leaned over the counter, close enough to see the man’s gsses fog slightly, and brushed a stray lock of hair behind his ear, exposing it fully.

  “What was that, mister?” he teased, voice light.

  A warmth bloomed across his own cheeks at the audacity of it—his confidence and embarrassment tangled into one dizzy rush.

  The man visibly tried to steady himself. He tugged at his vest, straightening it—though it was already perfectly straight—before speaking again, this time louder, as if mustering courage.

  “I’d like a single-origin Ethiopian Yirgacheffe, brewed at a high ratio—make it one to sixteen. A-also… give it a slight caramel garnish and a thin yer of whipped cream, for a developing fvor profile with each sip.”

  He paused for breath, adjusted his wire-rimmed gsses with a sharp push—then, with a final huff as if challenging Ashe to a duel, added, “Full manual brew.”

  Ashe gasped, hand flying to his mouth. It wasn’t part of the act—he was genuinely fbbergasted.

  This man had taste.

  Still, the way he squared his shoulders made it obvious he thought Ashe wouldn’t have a clue how to pull off such a request. He already looked like he’d won.

  Ashe’s lips curled into a sly smile, eyes crinkling with mischief.

  “Good choice,” he said.

  The man’s look of superiority faltered—if only for a moment.

  Ashe turned, moving with practiced ease. He grabbed the beans he needed without hesitation, measuring them out with a single scoop and a swift, sure swipe. The numbers lined up perfectly.

  He poured the beans into the hand grinder with a casual flourish, letting the motion linger just long enough to draw the eye. Every coffee connoisseur knew how hard it was to get the perfect grind by hand—yet Ashe made it look effortless.

  Just to twist the knife a little deeper, he started to hum—soft and tuneless, like he didn’t have a care in the world. The sound drifted easily across the counter, threading through the quiet clink of metal and the steady grind of beans.

  He finished grinding the coffee to a perfect, medium-fine consistency—like table salt. The gooseneck kettle beeped just then, signaling the water had reached temperature. Perfect timing. Lucky. Not that the man needed to know that.

  With a fluid flourish, Ashe reached for the V60—then paused. No, he corrected himself, Chemex. It suited the man’s taste better. The gss vessel went onto the scale, followed by the grounds: precisely 18.75 grams. Ashe felt on top of the world.

  He spun lightly on his heel, a little flourish that turned into a half-twirl, grabbing the kettle like a prop in a practiced dance. The first pour was slow, measured—just enough to bloom the grounds and wake up the aroma. He had about thirty seconds to wait.

  So, naturally, he twirled again—bigger this time, his confidence feeding itself. The motion carried him around with more force than intended, and the skirt rode way up.

  Ashe froze mid-turn, heat flooding his face. He’d never worn a skirt before a couple days ago, and he hadn’t realized how dangerous a twirl could be—especially in one this short.

  Disaster struck.

  The skirt flung up high—fring far higher than it should have—fshing smooth skin, the soft curve of his rear, and, for a few mortifying seconds, the outline of his petite bulge. The duck print was the least of his concerns now.

  Ashe froze mid-motion, heart hammering, eyes locking with the man’s across the counter. He braced for shock, mockery—something.

  Instead, the man began to cp. Quietly. Slowly.

  “Your movements are fine and graceful,” he said, voice steady as if critiquing a performance. “Timing impeccable.”

  Then, after a pause that felt deliberate:

  “I have high hopes that you won’t disappoint me.”

  The words were heavy—sincere, even. Like this moment was of utmost importance to him.

  And somehow, that made it worse.

  Really worse.

  He cares more about the coffee than what’s under my skirt?! The man had been a floundering mess a minute ago, red-faced and stammering—and this was what impressed him?

  Ashe couldn’t expin why it pissed him off so much, but the irritation bubbled up anyway, sharp and childish. It felt like he’d just been challenged a second time.

  The clock in the back of his head started ticking. He had seconds—exactly twenty—before the bloom would finish and the coffee would demand his attention again.

  Time stretched.

  The café around him fell away, repced by a hazy, echoing expanse—like his brain had hit a state of emergency and opened some kind of inner war room.

  Alright, Ashe, he thought, standing in the void of his own imagination, you’ve got one shot.

  He sifted through every move, every trick he’d seen his coworkers use—the hair flip, the smile, the lean, the ugh—discarding each one like cards from a bad hand. He dug deeper, synapses firing like sparks, fractions of seconds dragging into minutes in his head.

  Somewhere, a version of him in that mind-space paced before a chalkboard filled with doodles of feminine figures in scandalous poses and half-formed pickup lines, muttering strategies under his breath like a field general in high heels.

  He needed the move—the perfect blend of words and gesture to drag this man’s gaze back to him.

  Not even half a second had passed.

  Ashe kicked up, leg snapping onto the counter with a loud bang that sent porcein and metal cttering in protest. “The taste will leave you shaking for more…” he began, breath steady, tone dripping confidence he barely felt. “But first—do you mind if I take these off?”

  He gestured to his thigh-highs and didn’t wait for permission. Slowly, he peeled the sock down, letting the estic roll over his skin until the pale line of his thigh bounced free. He flexed his toes once they were bare, feigning nonchance.

  “It’s a little warm in here,” he said, voice soft, teasing. “Wouldn’t want to slip from bad traction, you know?”

  He knew his skirt wasn’t covering much. From where the man stood, the angle was safe—but not that safe. To see anything, the man would have to move—crouch, lean, lower himself just enough to break that polite, intellectual distance he’d been hiding behind.

  And that was the game.

  If he looked, even for a heartbeat, Ashe would know he’d won. The power would tilt. The man would have shown want first.

  Ashe wasn’t exposing himself; he was baiting him.Letting the silence stretch, daring him to make the next move.

  The man’s eyes went wide, trembling behind his lenses. Even the slow peel of the sock didn’t break his composure; he kept his gaze fixed squarely on Ashe’s face. But Ashe could see it—the cracks forming, the tension tightening like a string.

  Then, with an almost audible click of restraint snapping, the man’s eyes dropped.Lightning-fast. Guilty.

  Ashe’s leg slipped down just as smoothly. Then, with deliberate calm, he lifted the other up onto the counter. The motion was slower this time, deliberate, measured. The man’s gaze snapped back up—then faltered—then dropped again, caught in a tug-of-war with his own self-control.

  When Ashe began peeling the second sock, the man’s will finally broke. His eyes traced every movement, drinking in the smooth flex of Ashe’s calf, the subtle bounce of muscle and skin.

  His breath turned heavy, uneven, fogging the air between them.Or maybe that was Ashe’s own.At this point, he couldn’t tell the difference.

  Ashe felt himself growing; a sudden rush of warmth crawled up his stomach. He could tell by feel alone his boy bits were poking straight out of his panties waistband. He dared not move—any shift would draw attention to the pretty little tent he was pitching. He had to pretend nothing had changed, keeping perfectly still as the man’s composure finally cracked.

  The second sock came free with a faint pluck. Ashe wiggled his toes as if savoring the freedom, watching the man lean against the counter to steady himself. “N-no, of course not,” the man stammered, his voice cracking halfway through. “What kind of gentleman would I be if I let you get hurt? Please, be my guest.”

  His gaze flickered, restless—down, up, down again—until finally, inevitably, his neck tilted, just slightly. Ashe screamed internally: He’s trying to look.

  He let out a long, airy sigh and fanned his skirt ever so slightly, teasing the air—just enough to make the man twitch. The reaction was all he needed. Ashe suspected he’d shown more than he meant to, tip included, but who cared? A win was a win.

  He dropped his leg and couldn’t hold it in—soft giggles slipped out, bubbling between breaths. “Thank you, mister,” he said through a grin so smug it practically sparkled. A tiny fist pump, a light step, and he twirled back toward the Chemex like a performer leaving the stage.

  Ashe spent the next few minutes slowly pouring the boiling water over the grounds, giving the brew the focus it deserved. When it was finished, he poured it into a waiting cup and saucer, tracing a neat ribbon of caramel down the rim for fir. A few quick shakes of the whipped cream canister, and a delicate spiral crowned the top—thin enough to melt slowly, blending sweet and milky into the first sip.

  Ashe slid the cup across the counter with a little flourish. Their fingers brushed—just long enough for a spark of contact—another of the girlies’ tricks. The man’s attention, though, quickly shifted to the drink itself.

  He lifted the cup with both hands, studying it with reverence. The caramel traced delicate rings along the rim while the whipped cream sank in slow, melting eddies. He tilted the cup, watching how the sheen caught the light before drawing it close to his face for a slow inhale.

  Ashe couldn’t help but notice how animated he’d become—the breathless excitement, the gleam in his eyes, and, well… some things were harder to hide than others.

  A long inhale.The soft crackle of the firepce filled the silence, mingled with the quiet murmur of a few patrons pretending not to stare. Ashe could see the man’s eyes narrow behind his gsses as he chased the aroma: citrus, honey, a whisper of toasted sugar. He swirled the cup once, letting the scent bloom again.

  Finally, he took a sip. A quiet breath through his nose, then another. He set the cup down, tapping the saucer once with a fingertip — a small, deliberate punctuation mark.

  “The acidity is bright,” he murmured. “Clean. The caramel… doesn’t overpower it. The bance is impressive.” He paused, gncing up at Ashe like he was reconsidering him entirely. “You’re wasted behind this counter.”

  High on his double victories, Ashe was practically glowing—bubbly and giggly. “And how would you use me?” he teased, voice lilting.

  The man blushed so hard it almost fogged his gsses. “Quite… I hope we meet again,” he managed, fumbling as he reached into his breast pocket. From it, he produced a gleaming blue coin marked 50 and dropped it into the tip jar with a soft clink.

  Ashe’s eyes widened. “Fifty?” he breathed. “Guess girls really do get good tip.”

  He blinked, realization dawning a beat too te. “—I mean, get good tips!”

  The man shuffled off with a stiff, uncomfortable gait—probably thanks to… certain lower difficulties—and settled near the firepce, cradling his cup like it might save him from embarrassment.

  Ashe stood behind the counter, grinning ear to ear. For a while, that grin held. Then—slowly, almost imperceptibly—it began to fade.

  His chest tightened. The lingering warmth of triumph drained away, repced by a crawling awareness that crept downward.

  He looked down. The tent in his skirt was still very much pitched.

  Ashe exhaled through his nose, face fttening into a grimace.What the fuck did I just do?

  Out of the corner of his eye, Ashe caught the woman in the sundress staring—mouth slightly open, eyes wide in disbelief.

  Oh God. She saw everything.

  He forced himself to keep smiling, pretending not to notice the ripple of murmurs from nearby tables. Every sound—the scrape of a spoon, the soft clink of porcein—suddenly felt aimed at him.

  Twenty painfully long minutes ter, the shop had thinned out to its final stragglers. Ashe moved through cleanup on autopilot, avoiding eye contact with anyone still nursing their drinks. He wiped tables that didn’t need wiping, rinsed cups that were already spotless—anything to stay busy and invisible.

  The air smelled faintly of caramel and burnt espresso, and his reflection in the espresso machine’s chrome surface looked about as tired as he felt—cheeks pink, hair out of pce, dignity hanging by a thread.

  By the time the counters gleamed and the floors were spotless, only one patron remained—the woman in the sundress.

  She sat near the window, long hair haloed by the soft café lighting, her half-finished tte growing cold. Every few seconds, her eyes flicked toward him and then away, as if she couldn’t decide whether to be amused or scandalized.

  Ashe stood there for a long moment, towel in hand, before sighing. Shame prickled at the back of his neck, but curiosity—it always won in the end.

  He hung the towel over his shoulder and made his way across the room, footsteps soft on the tile.

  When he reached her table, he hesitated only a second before sliding into the chair opposite her.

  “I, uh… figured I should at least come say hi,” he muttered, forcing a sheepish half-smile. “You mentioned something about a tip earlier…?”

  She hesitated when he sat down, eyes flicking toward him, then to the counter, then back again—like even she wasn’t sure how to talk to the guy who just pulled that performance.

  Finally, she sighed, leaning back in her chair. “If you wanted a tip so bad,” she said dryly, “why didn’t you take the uppity coffee man’s? I saw you eyeing it desperately.”

  Ashe blinked, heat creeping back up his neck. God, please let her be talking about the credits.

  He gave a weak ugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, I figured professionalism had to kick in sometime.”

  “Professionalism… right.”

  Her tone had an edge—half amusement, half irritation. She folded her arms, eyes narrowing. “You know, it’s a shame. The tip I was going to give you involved letting you ‘become a man,’ as they say. But after watching your little routine with him...” she gestured toward the empty stool where the bespectacled man had sat, “I realized I don’t have the sort of equipment you seem to be interested in.”

  Ashe blinked. The words hit like cold water.“Wait—no, that’s not— I’m not—”

  She waved a hand, cutting him off mid-stammer. “Rex, sweetheart. Doesn’t matter to me either way.” Her voice softened slightly, though the teasing never left her eyes. “A promise is a promise. So, instead of that kind of tip…”

  She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, the motion just enough to draw Ashe’s attention before her next words chilled him.

  “…I’ll give you information.”