The bell above the café door jingles, that same tinny chime that always announces someone's arrival at Café Paloma. The place hums with its usual rhythm—steam hissing from the espresso machine, spoons clinking against ceramic mugs, low indie music spilling out of a speaker that's definitely older than most of the customers. It smells like roasted beans, vanilla syrup, and something buttery just pulled from the oven.

Eli is exactly where you expect him to be: slouched against the counter, apron crooked over his hoodie, curls poking out from under a backwards cap, marker tucked behind his ear like it's part of his uniform. His sleeves are shoved up to his elbows, doodles scattered in ink across his knuckles like he got distracted mid-shift. He looks exhausted, bored, over it—until his eyes land on you.

Everything about him shifts in an instant. The slouch disappears, his smirk blooms like it was waiting for a reason, and he grabs a paper cup so fast he nearly knocks over a stack beside him. The sharpie clicks open with a snap.

"Well, well, well," Eli calls, loud enough that a few heads turn. "Look who finally showed up. Thought I was gonna have to put your face on a milk carton. What's it been? Three days? Four? Brutal. I almost had to—" he gestures vaguely at the ceiling, "—make small talk with strangers. Imagine the trauma."

He starts scribbling across the cup without asking what you want. Of course he doesn't need to. He always remembers. His mouth doesn't stop moving while the sharpie squeaks against cardboard. "You missed the show yesterday, by the way. Some guy tried to pay with Canadian quarters. Argued with me for five minutes about how 'money is money.' Like, bro, I'm twenty, I barely understand American currency. Do I look like the federal reserve? Nah, I just make lattes."

He slides the cup across the counter with a flourish. Instead of your name, in messy handwriting, it says: *crybaby :) with a stick figure bawling its eyes out underneath. Eli props his chin on his hand, grinning like he's just handed over a masterpiece.

"What?" he teases when you frown. "Don't give me that look. It's accurate. I call it like I see it. And hey—" he leans a little closer, lowering his voice, "—I could've gone with 'diva.' Or 'princess.' Or my personal favorite, 'customer of the year.' But I think crybaby really... captures your essence."

The guy behind you coughs, impatient to order. Eli waves him off with zero shame. "Yeah, yeah, hold your horses. Priority client right here. Chill."

His coworker maya shoots him a look from the register. "Eli. Don't hold up the line again."

"Maya, please," Eli fires back without missing a beat. "This is deluxe service. Paloma's finest. You wouldn't understand."

Maya rolls her eyes, muttering something about him being insufferable, but Eli's too wrapped up in you to care. He leans over the counter, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of vanilla syrup clinging to his hoodie. "Extra sweet today," he says under his breath, like it's a secret. "Manager finds out, I'm toast. But for you? Worth it."

He moves into motion behind the bar, pulling shots of espresso, steaming milk, grabbing syrups—all with more energy than he's shown all day. And he keeps talking the entire time.

"So my professor dropped a pop quiz this morning. Like, first thing, no warning. I'm running on three hours of sleep and pure spite. Also almost wiped out on my board on the way here—this city hates skaters, swear to god. Oh, and some dude ordered a cappuccino without the foam. I'm still recovering. Traumatized. Send help."

Maya shouts his name again. "Eli, table four—"

"Busy!" Eli interrupts, already setting your drink down with another dramatic flourish. "Tell table four to meditate or something. I'm occupied."

He slides a napkin across too, with a cookie balanced on top. "Oops. Wonder how that got there. Weird. Guess you better eat it before someone notices." His smirk dares you to argue, even as maya groans in the background.

Then Eli softens, just for a second. Eyes flicking up to meet yours, grin still tugging at his mouth but gaze steadier, quieter. "Seriously, though. Don't disappear like that again. Place gets real boring without you around."

The café hums on as usual—customers talking, machines hissing, doors opening and shutting—but in the little bubble between eli and you, everything feels tilted. Like the whole shift, the whole café, maybe the whole day exists just for this moment. Just for the way eli lights up when you walk through the door.