After we have breakfast, warm and quiet with just the soft clink of cutlery and the faint hum of the refrigerator in the background, a gentle knock at the back door pulls us from our silence. Noah looks up from his cup of tea and nods toward it. "That'll be Ferrin."
One by one, the pastry suppliers arrive. Noah greets them each with a kind familiarity that tells me they've been working with him for a long time. Ferrin, an elderly man with a soft belly and sharp eyes, brings in a crate of golden croissants that smell like comfort itself. He looks at me, squints, then smiles wide enough to show the creases on his cheeks.
"You're the new guy?"
I nod, unsure if I should bow, shake his hand, or just smile. I end up doing an awkward mix of all three. Ferrin chuckles and reaches into the crate. He hands me one of the warm croissants, wrapped in wax paper.
"Welcome to the neighborhood, Knox. On the house. First croissant always comes with a blessing."
I mutter a thank you, but my mouth is already full. It's flaky and buttery and soft at the center. Possibly the best thing I've ever tasted.
After Ferrin comes Nora, a single mother with a tired face and a bright smile. She brings in two trays of cupcakes, each frosted with delicate swirls of color. Her son waits by the door, holding a small tote bag that probably has schoolbooks inside.
Then there's Sharon, the girl probably my age, doesn't say much but gives me a respectful nod as she delivers her tray of matcha chiffon. And finally, Jake, who looks like he belongs in a punk rock band but bakes the softest cinnamon rolls I've ever seen. He tells me to call him Jay and offers a fist bump before disappearing into the morning mist.
I'm surprised how warm everyone is. I didn't expect it—kindness from strangers, gentle welcomes. Maybe the world isn't as cold as I thought.
With the deliveries placed neatly behind the counter, Noah checks the fridge and storage before turning to me. "Yuna's out sick today. So it's just the two of us for the morning shift. Hope you're ready to be thrown into the fire, Knox."
I blink. "Wait—really? Just us?"
He gives me a grin that doesn't quite match his usual calm demeanor. It's boyish, a little mischievous. "Trial by fire builds character. Come on, I'll walk you through it."
Noah slips on his apron, black with the cafe's name stitched in pale gold. His badge reads just 'Noah,' like that's all he needs. I wear the plain white apron and he says, "I'm ordering your badge name and apron. Should be done by Thursday, but I'll give them to you once you survive the first week, okay?"
I chuckle and nod. "Fair enough. Who knows? I might get fired before I even finish my first week."
"Who dares fire you without my permission?" Simple question, probably a joke, but it warms me. I just smile.
He starts with the espresso machine. It hisses like a creature with a temper. The buttons and levers look complicated, and I already feel the pressure building behind my eyes.
"First thing—always check the grind. It's like rice: too fine, and it clogs; too coarse, and it's weak."
I try. I really do. But my first attempt ends in a bitter, sludgy mess. The second one tastes like burnt sadness. Noah doesn't scold me. He just shakes his head, laughs, and shows me again.
We move on to steaming milk. The pitcher gets too hot too fast, and I accidentally touch the metal with my bare fingers. I hiss and pull away.
"Careful," Noah says, gently taking the pitcher from my hand. "You'll build calluses soon. Every barista does."
I shake my hand out, stubborn. "I want to try again."
"Alright, but if you end up burning your whole hand, I'm not explaining that to a doctor."
Eventually, I manage a decent foam. It's nothing like his—his looks like a mirror, smooth and perfect—but it's something. He lets me pour it into the coffee, and I spill half of it down the side of the cup.
"Art," Noah says dryly, observing the mess. "Modern art."
I laugh, embarrassed, but not as crushed as I thought I'd be. It's strange. With him, I don't feel judged. Just guided. Encouraged, even.
He shows me how to work the register, how to read quick visual cues from customers—some want to chat, some want silence. Some need a soft tone to start their day. Others want energy. It's almost like acting, adapting to each one. The idea oddly appeals to me.
"You'll find your rhythm soon," he says, wiping down the counter. "You're doing alright."
Alright. It feels better than any praise I've gotten in months.
The bell over the front door jingles. Our first customer. A woman in a gray coat, ordering a double shot with oat milk. Noah handles the order while I fumble through prepping another cup behind him, just to practice.
By the third customer, I've memorized the buttons. By the fifth, I've steamed milk without burning myself. By the eighth, I try a heart shape in the foam. Well. A lopsided heart. More like a potato. But still.
We work in sync, Noah and I. He moves like he's done this his whole life. Calm, focused. I follow behind, learning with every step. Every now and then, he says my name—Knox—and it still feels new in my ears, but good. Chosen. Mine.
Halfway through the shift, during a brief lull, Noah leans back against the counter and stretches.
"Not bad for your first day."
"Thank you, Coach."
He smiles and takes my burned hand. I blink twice, surprised. But I let him examine my hand. "Does it hurt much?"
I don't know why I feel nervous. I cough and shake my head. "Not really."
He looks down at me, his gaze soften. "Let me take care of it, yeah?" Noah's voice sounds smoother than the jazz music in the background.
Why does Noah care so much about the burn? About my hand? About ... me? I was just a stranger. I'm just an employee. Or maybe he's always this kind to anyone?
... what am I even thinking. I'm straight. Straight as a ruler.