Page 5 of Embers of Midnight
“Sorry,” I say, steadying the cup. “All hot stays in the mug; all shirts stay dry.”
He gives me a tight smile, the kind people wear to cover relief. When I pass the server station, Jess breathes out in a whisper, “NASA should hire you.”
“If one more person asks me to smile,” I mutter back, “I’m issuing coupons for sarcasm.” She snorts into her sleeve.
At five, the angled light outside goes steel-blue and tired. Mark cycles through the floor with his hands in his pockets and that managerial squint like he’s personally negotiating with gravity. He pauses at my section. “You good?”
“Living the dream.” I flick my eyes at the clock and start a new pot because apparently everyone in this city decided caffeine is a vitamin.
The dinner wave is a soft bump compared to breakfast and lunch. A couple people with laptops, two teens splitting fries, the bus-station pair again because life’s a circle. Eight-thirty turns into nine. The bell rings and two men slide in near the far end of the counter, both in outerwear that’s seen work and weather. Beards that look grown, not groomed. The air shifts. Not a big shift. Enough.
I clock distance without thinking: my body behind the counter, the panic button under the register, the kitchen window open to Lina, who catches my glance and nods once. Jess is in the back rolling silverware. Mark is at the office computer, pretending to do payroll.
“Evening,” I say. “Kitchen’s open another thirty.”
“Coffee,” the first one says. His eyes skim me like he’s reading the specials off my face. “Two.”
I pour both and set them down. “Food?”
“Nah,” the second says, grin crooked in a way that wants to be charming and misses. “We’re here for the service.”
“Lucky you,” I say. “Service is all-inclusive. Sugar’s right there.”
The first one leans forward, elbows on the counter, jerking his chin at my name pin. “Sera,” he reads. He rolls it around once like he’s tasting it. “Smile, Sera.”
“You’re ordering coffee,” I say. “Not my face.”
He laughs like I did something cute. “Be a doll and lean over, huh?”
“Not on the menu.” My voice stays even. I keep my hands visible, shoulders square, chin easy. Not apologizing. Not daring.
“We could take you home after you clock out,” the second offers. He’s got the kind of eyes that don’t stick to one place. He checks the closing sign like he gives a shit. “Dangerous out.”
“I’ve got a home,” I say. “And keys. And a police department that picks up the phone.”
His grin doesn’t reach his eyes. He drags two fingers along the tip jar and lets them rest a beat longer than necessary. I’m pretty sure he leaves three dimes. Asshole move. He taps something into his phone under the counter line. The hairs at the back of my neck notice.
“C’mon,” the first says, lazy. “Smile like you mean it.”
“I do,” I say. “Just not at you.” I take one half-step backwards, enough that Lina can see more of me through the window. She shifts closer without breaking her rhythm, the soft slap of a burger hitting the flat-top a promise I didn’t know I needed.
They drink like they’re playing at normal. When a couple at a booth gets up to pay, I flick eyes to Mark and he drifts out to run their card, posture casual. He’s not heroic, but he’s not blind.
“Another round?” I ask, once their cups are empty.
“Nah.” The first stands, tugging his jacket straight. His gaze passes over my throat like a cold draft. “We’ll see you later, Sera.”
Neutral face. “Have a good night.”
They go. The bell tings as the door shuts. Cold comes in and leaves again. I breathe out, long.All right. That was nothing. That was something. Keep it together.
Nine-fifty becomes nine-fifty-nine. The place thins to quiet. I run a soft close in my head: count the drawer, flip the chairs, sanitize, trash, lights. Mark waves the busers home early and takes the deposit bag into the office. Jess shrugs into her jacket and slips out the back with a “See you, babe,” that I throw back asStay safe.
Lina cleans down the flat-top with those firm strokes that mean done. “You want me to wait?” she asks, already half out of her apron.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’ve got a ten-minute walk and a mean right hook.”
She snorts. “Text me when you’re in.”
