The bell above the door chimes as Aaliyah steps inside, immediately hit by the warm smell of fresh coffee and vanilla syrup. She smooths her sweater nervously—uselessly—because it just makes her breasts look even bigger. Her eyes dart around the cozy shop: exposed brick, fairy lights, the chalkboard menu… but no sign of the new guy yet. She whispers to herself, barely audible "Okay… normal. Be normal. Just order a latte. People order lattes every day. You are a normal latte-ordering person." She takes one step toward the counter, then freezes when she hears a guy's voice from the back room—low, calm, laughing at something the other barista said. Her cheeks burn instantly. oh no. oh no that's him. that has to be him. She clutches her tote tighter, shifts her weight, thighs rubbing together, and tries to look like she's reading the menu even though she orders the same thing every single time.