The cafe was quieter than usual that late afternoon. The lunch rush had come and gone and now the steady stream of after-work regulars trickled in and out. It was the kind of lull that Salis wasn't exactly sure how to feel about.
On one hand it allowed him to catch his breath but on the other, that quiet also let him start to get in his own head, thinking thoughts that he'd rather not.
Remembering things.
He wiped down the counter and grabbed a fresh rag, absentmindedly cleaning the same spot for the third time. It was a good way to avoid thinking about anything else.
Behind the counter, Lael was stocking up the supplies, his movements casual but efficient. They hadn't exchanged many words during the shift. Lael had gotten into the rhythm quickly and Salis no problem working in the quiet.
Still, there was something about him—a quiet observation, the was his gaze seemed to linger just a bit longer than necessary. Salis had noticed that Lael would glance over at him from time to time, but never in an intrusive way. It was like he was just paying attention, quietly taking in the details.
Salis was pulling a shot of espresso when he heard Lael's voice from behind him, a soft question cutting through the quiet lull of the coffee shop.
"Hey, uh… have you eaten today?"
Salis stiffened slightly, his fingers freezing on the glass. He didn't turn around immediately, pretending he hadn't heard. But Lael's voice was steady, not forced or concerned. He was just asking, as if it was a normal question, as if he wasn't already expecting the answer.
"Oh, are you talking to me?" Salis asked, stalling finally facing him. Lael leaned against the counter, nodding. "Yeah, my breakfast was huge. So I'm still pretty full." He gave a tight lipped smile before he immediately went back to the espresso machine, trying to focus on something else—anything else.
There was a beat of silence, and then Lael's voice again, gentle but persistent.
"Gotcha. It just noticed that you hadn't taken a break. Or eaten. It's… been a while."
Salis's stomach did that annoying thing again, the sensation of emptiness settling in the pit of his belly when he thought about just how long it had been since he'd eaten. But he refused to acknowledge it. It was nothing. Nothing he hadn't been through a thousand times.
"I don't need a break," Salis said quickly, the words coming out like a shield. He didn't want to be seen like this. "I'm fine," he continued. "Just a lot to do around here."
The silence between them stretched longer this time, more noticeable. Lael didn't argue, but there was something in his gaze, something Salis couldn't quite shake. He could feel it even though he wasn't looking at him.
After a moment, Lael sighed softly. Salis's hands tightened around the filter, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of someone noticing something he had worked so hard to keep hidden.
"I didn't mean to pry," Lael said, his voice steady, like he wasn't trying to push any further. "I just… I don't know. You work hard, Salis. Maybe you should just sit for a bit?"
Salis froze again. It was like switch had been flipped, and now the words that had seemed so harmless at first felt too heavy. Too real.
"I'm not hungry," Salis said quickly, his voice dropping. He tried to pass it off with a half-shrug, but the response was more automatic than anything else.
"I understand. You don't have to tell me anything." There was a softness to his tone that made Salis feel both relieved and exposed at the same time.
'BECAUSE THERE IS NOTHING TO TELL!!!' Salis wanted to shout at Lael. But he didn't look up from the machine, his fingers tightening around the filter. He could feel himself growing tense, like he always did. He wanted to tell Lael to to mind his business, to stop paying attention to him so much. He didn't want to need breaks. He didn't want to need anything.
Instead, he nodded stiffly, avoiding Lael's eyes.
"Thanks," he muttered, his voice flat. "But I'm good."
There was a slight pause before Lael spoke again, his voice quieter this time, almost as if he wasn't sure what to say.
"Okay. Just… don't push yourself too hard."
Lael let out a breath he didn't realize that he had been holding. His shoulders tensed, and he felt a flicker of guilt mix with the familiar discomfort. 'Push himself too hard'? He wasn't sure if he was more irritated or relieved by the way that Lael had phrased it.
Salis moved through the cafe with his usual precision—swift, silent, almost ghost-like as he cleared off a table near the back door. Lael watched him from behind the counter while restocking cups, pretending not to stare even though he absolutely was.
Salis had that look again—shoulders slightly hunched, movements too careful. His eyes flicking up every few seconds like he was waiting for something to happen. Lael didn't understand it, but he'd it wasn't the first time he'd seen these patterns.
Out of nowhere, the back door slammed. Not gently and not by accident. A delivery driver had shoved it open with his elbow and let it crash shut behind him with a sharp bang.
The sounds cracked through the calm like a whip.
Salis flinched so hard he nearly dropped the cloth in his hands. His entire body jolted—shoulders snapping upward, breath catching, jaw tightening like someone had grabbed him.
For a split second, he looked young—much younger than Lael knew he was—eyes wide and empty the way someone might look right before bracing for impact.
Lael's stomach twisted.
Salis blinked rapidly and forced his posture back into place, movements stiff and too neat.
"Sorry," he muttered to no one, or maybe to the room itself, stretching the towel taunt in his hands. The delivery driver didn't notice. He just walked past with a box under his arm, humming. Salis stood there, just standing. Almost like he wasn't sure what to do with himself.
Seeing him like that, Lael left the counter without thinking and crossed the room, trying to keep his footsteps light on purpose. When he reached the table, he slowed, giving Salis space, trying not to crowd.
"You okay?" He asked softly—gentle in a way that he hoped wouldn't spook him.
Salis looked down. "Fine." His tone was neutral, but his hands betrayed him; his fingers trembling just as a bit.
Lael leaned a hip lightly against the next table over, not blocking Salis's exit, not touching him. Just there. Close enough to reach if needed.
"That door was loud," he said casually, as if they were talking about the weather. "Even made me jump."
A tiny pause.
Salis swallowed once, then gave the smallest nod. "It was unexpected."
"That why you froze?" Lael meant it gently, but the question still hung in the air with the weight.
Salis's breath hitched again, so faint most people wouldn't have caught it. He finally looked up at Lael, eyes darker then usual, something haunted flickering behind them.
"I didn't freeze," he said softly—but it wasn't defensive. It was embarrassed. He smoothed the cloth again. "I just… reacted. It's nothing."
Lael's chest tightened. "It didn't look like nothing," he said, voice even softer now. "Looked like it scared you."
Salis blinked, mouth parting as if he didn't know how to respond. His shoulders curled inward, that familiar self-apologizing posture returning like a reflex.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't mean to—"
"You don't need to be sorry," Lael interrupted carefully. "For flinching. For anything. It's okay."
Salis stopped again, but this time it wasn't from fear. It was confusion—like he wasn't used to someone stepping in to soften the impact instead of adding to it.
Lael offered a small smile. "I just wanted to check in. Being startled is allowed, you know."
For a moment, Salis just stood there. Then he let out a shaky exhale and nodded again—smaller this time, but real.
"Thank you," he murmured.
Lael didn't push. He just reached for a spare menu on the table and straightened it, giving Salis an easy out from the moment. But as he walked back to the counter, he glanced over his shoulder.
Salis's hands had stopped shaking, yet his shoulders remained tense—like someone who had spent too many years expecting sudden noises to end in pain.
Lael's worry settled deeper. He didn't know what had happened to Salis in the past, but he knew this much:
No one flinched like that from a door slamming.
And he'd be damned if he didn't keep an eye out from now on.
Closing time was twenty minutes away, and most of the staff had already clocked out. Salis stayed, of course.
He always volunteered for the last shift—the tasks made it easier to keep busy, and harder to eat. He told himself he liked the serenity, the order, the routine.
But right now the silence felt too sharp, pressing in at the edges. He stood at the industrial sink, rinsing milk pitchers one by one, his movements precise. His body was still wound tight from earlier; the slam of the door echoing like a memory he couldn't quite shake.
Don't react. Don't freeze. Stop embarrassing yourself.
His mother's voice flickered in his mind—unwanted but familiar, as persistent as bruise.
Stop that. You're doing it wrong. Again.
Salis shut his eyes just enough to force the thought away, seeing the pitcher down harder than he meant to.
"Long day?"
The voice behind him was soft, not startling, but his shoulders still jumped a little. He turned and saw Lael stood in the doorway, jacket half on, his hair tousled messily. He hoisted his bag higher over one of his shoulders.
Salis swallowed. "I didn't hear you come back."
"I forgot my headphones." Lael lifted them slightly to show he wasn't lying. "Saw you still here. I figured you'd be halfway through reorganizing the entire kitchen."
A faint twitch tugged at the edges of Salis's mouth. "Only the mugs."
Lael stepped closer and as he did Salis could feel the quiet warmth that he always carried with him, like the smell of cinnamon and the sun coming out after a rainy day.
"Can I help?" Lael asked.
"You're off shift."
"And you're doing twice the work for free." Lael nudged a clean cup towards the drying rack. "So?"
Salis hesitated, towel still in hand. People offering help still felt like a trick, like an opening for disappointment. But Lael just waited, patient as always.
"…Okay," Salis said finally.
They worked side by side in easy quiet, rinsing, drying, stacking. Lael made no attempt to fill the silence. He only hummed lightly under his breath, some tune that Salis didn't recognize.
After a bit, Salis spoke, his voice low.
"I'm… sorry about earlier. I shouldn't have reacted like that."
Lael's brow softened. "It's fine. No need to worry about it."
"It's not fine. I looked stupid."
The words caught Lael off guard. He moved slightly closer to Salis, turning off the water that had been running. "You did not." His tone was steady, calm. "It's okay to get scared, Salis."
Salis's breath stuttered in his chest. He didn't reply.
"If you ever want to talk about it, I'll listen," he said simply. "But you don't have to if you don't want to," he made sure to add quickly.
The words floated gently in the air, an invitation rather than a demand. Salis's throat felt tight, like something painful sat lodged there.
"Why do you care?" he asked before he could swallow the question. It wasn't accusatory—just confused, vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed.
Lael paused, considering. Then he shrugged, but it wasn't dismissive. "Because you matter," he said. "And I want to help you realize that."
Salis stared at the sink, eyes burning—not with tears, but with the effort of holding something heavy inside. Lael pretended not to notice and continued staking plates.
His gentleness gave Salis space to take a breath—just a little, but enough. A long moment passed before Salis found his voice again, soft as rising.
"…Thank you," he muttered.
Lael's small was small and warm. "Anytime."
They kept working in silence, but it was different now—softer, safer.
And for the first time that day, Salis's shoulders eased down from around his ears.
It was just a little, bit it was enough for Lael to see.
And enough for Salis to feel.
+++
The Saturday rush hit the cafe like a tidal wave—customers at every table, grinders whirring non-stop, milk steaming in frantic bursts. It was the kind of shift that blurred hours together and Salis moved through it flawlessly. Almost too much so.
Lael worked espresso station, watching Salis over the machine with the same growing concern that had been sitting in his chest since yesterday. Busy shifts were always like this but today something felt wrong.
And worse: Salis's break timer had gone off an hour ago. And he's ignored it. Again.
A tray clattered loudly on the counter as a customer returned their dishes too forcefully. At the sound—just like yesterday—Salis flinched. Not as dramatically, but enough that his hand jerked and the glass he was holding almost slipped.
Lael's heart lurched.
Salis placed the glass down with careful, trembling finger, pretending nothing happened. But Lael saw the way he steadied himself on the counter before walking away.
When the rush finally thinned, Lael caught a glimpse of Salis closing the pantry case, moving past the food without looking at it. His stomach growled loud enough for Lael to hear it across the room. Salis instantly hunched in on himself mortified.
He walked faster, shoulders curled inward, as if he could hide inside of himself.
Lael set down the coffee filter, barely resisting the urge to follow after him.
Five minutes later, the shift lead—Mara—called out, "Salis! Break! Now. You've skipped two."
"I don't need one," Salis called back, not meeting anyone's eyes. Mara didn't argue; she'd learned that pushing wasn't the best when it came to him. Most of the other shift leads had no problem with Salis not taking a break since they were paid anyways and you didn't have to clock out, but Mara didn't like the way that he just always seemed to be working.
She nodded at Lael on her way to the office, an unspoken keep an eye on him.
Lael nodded back, wiping his hands on his apron before stepping into the hallway where Salis had disappeared.
He found him at the back sink again, pretending to reorganize the same stack of cups he'd already straightened three times today alone.
"Salis?"
He stiffened but didn't turn around.
"You should drink some water," Lael said lightly. "You've been running around for almost five hours."
"I'm fine," Salis replied, but the words were thin. Tired. His hands were gripping the edge of the counter too tightly. Lael hesitated, then tried something gentler.
"You hungry at all?"
Salis's shoulders jerked like someone had put an ice cube down his shirt.
"No," he said quickly, taking a step back. "I—I don't need to eat right now." His stomach, traitorous and loud, growled again. Salis pressed a hand to his abdomen, face flooding with heat. Shame radiated off of him so strongly that Lael felt it in the air like static.
Lael stepped closer, but slowly, keeping his voice warm.
"Hey… it's okay to be hungry. Nothing to be embarrassed about."
Salis shook his head, still not turning around. "I'm not hungry."
Lael frowned gently. "Your body seems to disagree."
That made Salis freeze completely. The breath left him in a quiet, broken exhale. He squeezed his eyes shut, shoulders trembling. For a moment Lael thought he might be crying—that quiet way people cry when they're trying to hide it.
"Lael," Salis whispered, his voice small, "please don't." The words weren't a plea to stop talking—they were a please not to look closer. Not to see him like this.
Lael softened instantly.
"Okay," he murmured. "I won't."
Salis's breathing steadied a little.
But Lael knew he wasn't leaving him like this. Not today.
"Come sit with me for a minute," he said gently. "We don't have to talk. We can just… sit. You look exhausted."
Salis finally turned his head, just enough for Lael to see the faint tremble in his jaw. He looked torn—caught between refusing on instinct and accepting because he didn't trust his legs to keep holding him up.
"...Just sitting?" Salis asked, voice barely audible.
"Just sitting," Lael promised.
After a long moment, Salis nodded. Lael stepped aside to give him space, pretending not to notice how unsteady his walk was, or how he kept one hand pressed low on his abdomen as if trying to silence it.
As they sat on the small staff table in the back, Salis stared down at his empty hands, ashamed of something he couldn't name out loud.