The pace slows around mid-morning. After the last customer leaves with a matcha latte in hand and the bell above the door quiets, Noah glances at the empty shop floor and then at me.
"Come on," he says, nodding toward the stools near the side window. "Break time. Your hand needs it."
I glance down at my fingers. The skin is slightly red where I brushed the steaming pitcher earlier, the sting still faintly humming beneath the surface. "I'm fine."
"You're not," Noah says, already pulling out the small first-aid kit from under the counter. He doesn't give me time to argue. We sit down, and he opens the kit with a practiced hand, then gently takes mine like it's the most normal thing in the world.
"You're stubborn, you know that?" he says, dabbing a bit of cream on the reddened skin.
I don't answer. My thoughts are too tangled. It's not just the burn. It's this quiet moment, the way his fingers move with careful precision, the way his brows draw slightly in concern like it genuinely matters to him.
"Thanks," I mumble, but it comes out hoarse. I clear my throat.
He looks up, and our eyes meet. Something flickers in his gaze, unreadable. "You did great this morning. Mistakes happen. What matters is you kept trying."
I nod. That should be the end of it. But there's something shifting inside me. A sense of unease mixed with warmth. Why does his kindness feel like it means more than it should?
Before I can unpack it, Noah stands, tossing the used bandage into the trash. "Back to the front before someone thinks we abandoned the place."
We return to the counter just as the bell rings again. A man in his thirties walks in—worn blazer, half-smile, laptop tucked under his arm.
"Hey, Eli," Noah calls, the calm confidence back in his voice.
Eli leans on the counter and eyes me with casual interest. "New barista?"
"Yep. Just started today. This is Knox."
"Welcome," Eli says, "Noah's notoriously picky. If he hired you, you must be good."
I laugh nervously. "Or desperate."
Eli chuckles and orders his usual—long black, extra shot. "You have good eyes, Noah. Knox is a good looking guy—high possibility to be the face of this cafe. You always know how to run this cafe, don't you?" Eli says casually.
I glance at Noah when he jokes, "I know, right?"
Noah moves with practiced ease, making the coffee and chatting with Eli about something business-related—consulting clients, some cafe marketing strategy. I half-listen, pretending to organize the cups, grateful for a moment to breathe.
And then the bell chimes again.
A group of university girls enters—four of them, maybe five. They're laughing, their sneakers squeaking slightly against the floor. One of them stops mid-step when she sees me. "Oh my God," she says, and suddenly the air tightens. "Is that ...?"
Her voice drops, but the others glance at me. I recognize none of them by name, but the way their expressions shift—from curiosity to whispered recognition—makes my stomach clench.
They know me. My real identity. Not Knox. But Cassian Vale, the fallen heir.
I stiffen, suddenly aware of how exposed I am. My hands move too quickly. I almost drop a cup. I try to focus, to appear neutral, normal. But I can feel their eyes on me, feel the weight of judgment. Of memory.
In times like this, I wish I was still under my psychiatrist's care so I had the pills with me. But now? I need to learn how to cope and calm down with my own.
I don't know what to do. My mouth closed like it's locked forever. I can't even greet them like a good barista. My anxiety consumes me.
Noah steps in like he's been watching the whole thing. He brushes past me gently, his hand on my shoulder. Assuring. "I got this one," he murmurs, voice low but firm. I step back, grateful and ashamed at once.
He moves to take their order smoothly. Smiling, relaxed, making them focus on him instead of me. I stand by the espresso machine, hands gripping the counter edge too tightly. My thoughts swirl. I knew this might happen one day. That someone from that life, from that world, might find me here. But I didn't think it would be so soon.
Did they tell others? Will people talk again? Is my face going to be on the headline again? What if my co-workers know about it? Will I get fired? How about Noah?
Noah returns after a few minutes, holding their receipt. He slips behind the counter and glances at me. "You okay?"
I swallow. My throat is dry. "Yeah. Just ... caught off guard."
"You don't have to explain. Want some water?"
I nod. He hands me a glass and lets me stand there without pressure, no questions. Just presence. And somehow, that helps more than anything he could say.
When the drinks are ready, Noah calls out the names and hands them over without missing a beat. The girls linger for a moment, then find a table at the far end of the shop. They don't look at me again. Or if they do, I can't bring myself to check.
I take another deep breath and exhale slowly. My heart still pounds, but not as wildly. Noah starts cleaning the counter, humming something under his breath.
"Thanks," I say finally.
He looks at me, one brow arched. "For what?"
"For stepping in."
He shrugs. "That's what we do here. We take care of each other."
And just like that, I remember why I wanted to be here. Why this cafe, this strange place with fake names and real warmth, feels like something solid. Like maybe it could be home.
I glance at me who's slightly taller. He didn't judge. Didn't even ask anything. He just let it happen and forgot about it. I want to thank him. But I don't know for what. Maybe for letting me trying to stand on my own feet?
"Really, thank you," I murmur.
Noah smiles. Genuine smile. Like I matter for him. "You're welcome, then. Take it slowly, okay? You'll be alright."