The Gap

The sound of the café's bell jingled as another customer stepped inside. It was one of those lazy weekday afternoons where time felt like it was crawling, but the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the chatter of patrons made the air feel alive.

I wiped down the counter, sneaking a glance at Jen, who was balancing three cups of cappuccino on a single tray like she was auditioning for Cirque du Soleil.

"How do you even do that without spilling?" I asked, genuinely impressed.

"Years of practice," she said, smirking. "Stick with me, rookie, and one day you'll graduate from 'coffee carrier' to 'espresso queen.'"

"Wow, such high aspirations," I teased.

She rolled her eyes but laughed, setting the tray down at a table full of chatty women in yoga pants. When she came back, she leaned against the counter beside me, her mischievous grin firmly in place.

"So," she started, drawing out the word, "what's the deal with you and Mr. Grumpy Pants?"

I nearly dropped the cloth I was holding. "What? No deal! There's no deal. Why would there be a deal?"

Jen raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. "Relax, I'm just saying. He always sits in your section. Always."

"He sits in my section because this is where he always sits," I shot back, folding my arms. "It has nothing to do with me."

"Uh-huh," she said, smirking. "And the fact that he actually left a fifty-cent tip yesterday? Totally unrelated, I'm sure."

I groaned. "Jen, Fifty cents is hardly a declaration of love."

"No, but for him, it's practically a sonnet," she quipped.

---

As if on cue, the bell jingled again, and there he was. Mr. Grumpy Pants. Same button-up shirt, same perpetually furrowed brow, same aura of "I hate everything."

He gave a brief nod in my direction before settling into his usual seat by the window. I grabbed my notepad and approached, trying not to let Jen's teasing get to me.

"Good afternoon," I said, keeping my voice neutral. "The usual?"

He looked up, his expression unreadable. "Yeah."

"Coming right up," I said, turning to leave, but his voice stopped me.

"Wait."

I turned back, surprised.

"Uh… thanks," he said, his tone gruff but sincere.

"For?"

He shrugged. "Getting the order right."

I blinked. Was that... a compliment?

"Uh, you're welcome?" I said, retreating to the counter where Jen was waiting with a look that screamed spill everything.

"What did he say?" she whispered, practically vibrating with curiosity.

"He said 'thanks,'" I replied.

Jen gasped dramatically. "Oh my God, Aris, he's practically proposing!"

"Stop," I said, laughing despite myself.

---

As the day wore on, Jen and I found ourselves sharing more laughs between shifts. She had a way of making the mundane feel fun, whether it was by creating ridiculous nicknames for the regulars ("Double-Syrup Steve" and "Latte Linda" were personal favorites) or by staging impromptu dance battles in the storage room.

"You're such a dork," I said after catching her mid-moonwalk.

"And you're boring," she shot back, sticking out her tongue. "But don't worry, I'll fix that."

"Good luck," I said, grinning.

---

By the end of the shift, I was exhausted but surprisingly happy. Jen had a way of making me forget about the heaviness that had been sitting on my chest for so long.

As we locked up for the night, she slung an arm around my shoulder.

"You know, I think you're growing on me, rookie," she said with a smirk.

"Aw, Jen, that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me," I replied, wiping away an imaginary tear.

"Don't get used to it," she said, laughing.

But as we parted ways, I couldn't help but feel like this was the start of something good.

---

Later that night, as I lay in bed, I found myself thinking about Mr. Grumpy Pants. His gruff demeanor, his odd little quirks—how he always stirred his coffee exactly three times before drinking it, how he sometimes muttered to himself when he thought no one was listening.

It was ridiculous, really. But a small part of me couldn't help but wonder: was there more to him than met the eye?

"Don't even think about it," I muttered to myself, turning over and pulling the blanket over my head.

But the thought lingered anyway. For the first time a while, "He" wasn't plaguing my mind.