Ella’s POV:
So, there I was, throwing myself into work, letting the endless parade of custors keep my hands and brain busy. And oh, what a variety of characters walked through those doors.
There were the rude ones who acted like they owned the place because they bought a single latte. The ek ones who could barely whisper their orders without looking like we’d bite. The bratty kids running circles around tables, their parents pretending they didn’t exist. And my personal favorite? The shy ones who stuttered through their order like they were confessing their darkest secrets.
Oh, and of course, my absolute least favorite: the rich, spoiled brats. The ones who strutted in like they were gracing us with their presence, demanding almond milk this and oat milk that, like we were so kind of farm-to-table café. Honestly, they knew exactly how to get under my skin.
Sotis, when they’d toss their designer handbags onto the counter and bark out their orders, I’d wonder: Was I ever like this? Back when I was Ella Kingsley, daughter of the mighty Kingsley dynasty? Back when my last na actually ant sothing to people?
The thought made shudder. Sure, I’d had my bratty monts, but this bad? I sincerely hoped not. If I ever acted like one of these entitled little monsters, I owed the universe a major apology.
Anyway, I was on a roll. Work had done its job of numbing my brain to the disaster of my day. I’d forgotten all about Jason ignoring and Dylan’s awkward, novel-inspired confession. I was in the zone, slinging coffee and pastries like I was in a competitive barista tournant.
And then, of course, the universe decided I’d had enough peace for one day.
Guess who walked in.
Max.
And right behind him? The confessor himself—Dylan.
My stomach did a little flip, not the fun, butterfly kind. No, this was the oh no, not this again kind of flip. I groaned inwardly. Seriously, could I not catch a break? Did they track here? Were they bored? Did they flip a coin and decide to invade my safe space?
Max spotted first, his grin so wide you’d think he’d won the lottery. Dylan followed, giving this half-smirk that imdiately set on edge. Was he still riding the high from his little library stunt? Because if he thought he was getting a round two of that nonsense here, he was sorely mistaken.
I straightened up behind the counter, trying to decide whether to bolt to the back room or stand my ground. Neither option sounded particularly appealing, but one thing was for sure—I wasn’t about to make this easy for them.
Max, as usual, was his overly cheerful, bubbly self. Honestly, how soone could have that much energy and joy radiating out of them was beyond . Did he eat sunshine for breakfast? anwhile, Dylan was... well, Dylan. Except now, he wasn’t just Dylan. He was Confessed Dylan.
And let tell you, boys after they confess? They’re a whole different breed of annoying.
Dylan was strutting around with this prince charming act that made want to roll my eyes so hard they’d get stuck. He was smiling, tilting his head just right, and giving those eyes. You know, the ones that scream, "I’m totally irresistible, right?"
Ugh. The nerve.
The worst part? He was acting like I’d said yes. Like, where in the tiline of this disaster did I agree to this? Did I miss a eting? A mo? Because from where I was standing, I hadn’t even replied to his little library stunt. But judging by his confidence, you’d think we were one romantic montage away from our wedding day.
Honestly, it made sense he was friends with Jason. They both had this infuriating way of acting like the universe revolved around them. Was it a guy thing? Did confessing to a girl automatically upgrade them to so kind of entitled level of delusion?
Let be crystal clear: I liked Dylan before he confessed. The unconfessed Dylan was fine—chill, even likable. But this version of him? The one giving I’m-your-boyfriend-now vibes without my permission? A big, fat no.
And that was putting it mildly.
Did he think confessing was so magical spell that obligated to flirt back? To suddenly swoon and play the doting love interest? Because, spoiler alert: it didn’t. And if this was how he acted without a reply, I didn’t even want to imagine how insufferable he’d be if I actually accepted him.
Not that I would. Ever.
It was official: boys grow bigger heads the second they utter the words, "I like you." Like, congratulations, dude, but why don’t you take that oversized ego and buzz off? I wasn’t interested in playing along, and I wasn’t about to give him any extra airti in my already drama-filled life.
In fact, I’d decided. Dylan, Jason, Max, the whole lot of them—they were just jerks hired by the universe to test my patience. Torture , even.
Well, guess what? I wasn’t giving them the satisfaction. Not today. Not ever.
Okay, wait. Where is Jason? Last ti he didn’t show up with his group of idiotic pals, he magically appeared in front of my door. And let’s be real, he’d probably spent that whole ti conjuring up so ridiculous excuse to "accidentally" need to co over to my place.
Not today, Satan.
I was not in the mood for his theatrics, his excuses, or his relentless attempts to worm his way into my already fragile sanity. I missed my bed. I missed the sweet, warm, silent embrace of my sheets. What I did not miss? The idea of playing hostess to Jason "I’ll-Just-Show-Up-Uninvited" Whatever-His-Last-Na-Is.
And honestly, speaking of moods—what was wrong with mine today? I felt like an emotional pinball machine, bouncing from annoyance to rage to full-on existential dread, all in the span of an hour.
Wait. Oh no.
Was it that ti of the month?
It had to be. That would explain everything. The mood swings. The irrational irritation. The sudden urge to simultaneously fight Jason and also maybe text him just to see if he cared.
What day is it? It better not be the 24th. Because if it is, then everything about this train wreck of a day just got ten tis worse.
I groaned and rubbed my temples, trying to do the ntal math. But of course, instead of staying focused, my brain decided to take a detour straight into the land of Why-Am-I-Like-This. Great. Now I was rambling to myself, spiraling into a one-woman pity party in the middle of my shift.
I shook my head, forcing myself to focus. The café was packed, and I needed to snap out of it. My eyes scanned the room, landing on the source of all my problems.
Oh, perfect. Who better to take out my frustrations on than the actual idiots responsible for them?
There they were. Max, with her sunshine-and-rainbows deanor, obliviously sipping his smoothie like he hadn’t dragged Dylan into my bubble of peace earlier. And Dylan himself, sitting there with that smug little smirk, like he wasn’t singlehandedly trying to derail my perfectly good plan of graduating drama-free.
Jason might’ve been missing, but these two? They were right here, practically begging to be the outlet for my frustration.
Ga on.
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