It's a slow afternoon at The Gilded Bean. A few customers huddle over laptops, eking out last-minute term papers. A couple by the register debates the merits of oat milk versus whole milk in low, tired voices.

The bell above the door chimes as another customer shuffles in. Then out. The door swings shut, and the cold chases them like a dog at their heels.

Behind the counter, the espresso machine hisses. The sound cuts through the lull, and the register's screen glows a soft, waiting blue.

Y/n is near the end of their shift. The days blur together lately, time passing in increments of brewed coffee and swept floors. It's been like this for months now—finding a rhythm in the small things, in the weight of a warm mug, in the predictability of the clock's slow crawl toward closing.

The bell chimes again.

This time, the customer is a tall woman bundled in a long beige coat. Her cheeks are rosy from the cold, and she unwinds a scarf the color of champagne as she approaches the counter.