Chapter Text
“Fuck.”
“Santos, language, please,” Robby sighed from the pastry counter, not even looking up as he selected a croissant. He’d already watched her burn herself with the steam wand for what had to be the fifth time this week.
She hissed through her teeth, shaking out her hand. “I’m telling you, there’s something wrong with this one; the setting is too high, it’s scorching the milk.”
“It’s steam,” he said, sliding the pastry case shut with a click. “It’s supposed to be hot.”
“It’s wrong,” she insisted, grabbing a towel and pressing it to the reddening spot on her index finger. The espresso machine sputtered behind her, mocking her.
Robby finally glanced over, eyebrows lifting in that slow, disappointed arc he’d perfected. “Well then, just steam the milk for less time.”
“I can’t do that,” she grumbled, reaching for the wand again, turning knobs.
He pointed at her with the pastry tong, “I’ll call the repair people if it bothers you this much.”
“Fine, fine.” Hands raised, she backed away from the machine. “I’ll just use the other ones.”
“Thank you,” Robby sighed. “Now go help Mel in the back. She was icing the cinnamon rolls, and it looked like the frosting was getting everywhere.”
“Fuckkk.”
“Santos.”
She groaned, dragging both hands down her face. “I’m going, I’m going,” she said, trudging towards the swinging kitchen door.
As she turned, Robby slipped the croissant into a to-go bag, taped it closed, and set it on the mobile-order shelf. The door chimed. A nurse in gray scrubs swept in, grabbed the bag, and tossed a quick, grateful “Thanks, guys!” over her shoulder before heading back out.
Robby lifted a hand in a silent you’re welcome, then looked back at Santos.
“And be nice to her.”
She stopped mid-stride, shoulders lifting in a defensive little hunch. “I’m always nice.”
“Then why are all of our bad reviews always bringing up the barista with the scowl?”
“How do you know it’s me and not Huckleberry?”
He looked at her, unamused.
“Whatever, they probably deserved it.”
“Santos,” he said, turning back to the pastries. “Most of our customers are medical professionals; they already have to deal with a lot, so let’s just try to please them, please.”
Santos opened her mouth, closed it, then jabbed a finger at him. “They’re dicks, and you know it. Always coming in here high and mighty. I’m just giving it back.”
Robby didn’t even look up. “Mel is waiting.”
Santos let out a long, suffering exhale and pushed through the door to the kitchen, muttering under her breath.
From the front, Robby called after her, “I can still hear you.”
A muffled, elongated groan answered him from the kitchen.
The Pitt Stop Cafe was a twenty-four-hour corner shop directly across from the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, close enough that you could watch the ambulances pull in. Santos was over it after the third time.
By six am, the shop had shifted from night-crawlers to chipper doctors. Dennis was already at the register, greeting the morning wave of scrubs with his patient, half-awake smile.
Santos emerged from the back, apron smeared in cream cheese frosting. Mel trailed after her, frowning gently.
“You have frosting on your face,” Mel said, reaching up but stopping short of touching her. “And your sleeve. And… your other sleeve.”
“It’s fine,” Santos muttered.
“It is not fine.” Mel’s hands made small circles in the air. “It is…everywhere.”
From the counter where Robby was pouring milk, he sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and handed Santos a rag. “Morning rush. Let’s go.”
He slid a stack of cups toward Santos without looking up.
Santos snapped a lazy salute. “If I must.”
Dennis glanced over from the register and bit back a smile. “Long morning already?”
Santos glared at him, “Shut it, Huckleberry, and get back to work.”
She took her place at the espresso station, the line of cups waiting for her—extra shots, half-caf, oat-milk-only-if-it’s-from-the-gray-carton, and one cup labeled 9-1-1.
Santos stared at it. “Who the hell orders six shots at six a.m.?”
Dennis turned his head and looked at her. “Trauma surgeon, he’s on hour twenty-two.”
“Guess that’s why they make the big bucks,” she murmured, loading the portafilter. She pulled the first shot, moving quickly.
“You’d think they’d be a little more health-conscious.” She squeezed butterscotch into a cup and then pumped coconut syrup. “How do they come up with these concoctions?”
Mel, who had been quietly wiping down the counter beside her, blinked. “They write them on the cups.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Santos said, beans grinding into the other portafilters, pulling more shots.
“Just make the drinks, Santos.” Robby weaved behind her.
“I am making the drinks,” she snapped. “Who puts butterscotch and coconut together?”
Mel tilted her head. “It smells nice.”
Santos rolled her eyes, “Don’t you have things in the oven?”
Mel jolted upright, looked down at her watch, “You’re right. My scones should be done.”
She speed-walked toward the kitchen, the door swinging behind her in a soft slap. The smell of the blueberry scones wafted from the kitchen.
Santos fell back into the rhythm—grind, pull, stir, serve. She called out names without looking up, mumbling a flat “have a good day” that barely counted as customer service.
The door chimed.
Santos didn’t look up at first—she was mid-pour, caramel ribboning the cup, but the voice that followed made her glance over.
“Hey Dennis.”
Dr. Parker Ellis. Same black hoodie, hair up, badge clipped to her bag. She tapped her card at the register before Dennis even finished greeting her.
Santos exhaled, shoulders dropping. “My easiest customer,” she muttered, and reached for a cup.
She poured hot coffee straight in. Black.
Parker drifted towards the pickup counter, leaning her hip against it while Santos kept pulling shots.
“How much longer till you’re back on nights?” Santos asked, eyes on the steam wand.
“Back next week,” Parker said, while grabbing the cup. “Thank God.”
“Bet Shen misses you.”
“Yeah, misses someone to mess with,” Parker scoffed. “Day shift is…a lot.”
Santos snorted under her breath. “Tell me about it.”
Parker lifted her coffee in a small salute. “Till next time.”
Santos didn’t look up, loaded another portafilter, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “See ya.”
A guy in scrubs reached over the counter, grabbed the cup before she even finished saying the name, and walked away without a fucking thank you in sight.
“Dick.”
By nine, the rush had thinned to a manageable trickle. Dennis handled the last few orders at the register while Santos wiped down her station.
Her eyes drifted to the front window.
Across the street, an ambulance pulled into the bay, sirens off, lights still spinning. Two paramedics pushed a stretcher toward the sliding doors while another team jogged past them.
Santos looked away.
Robby glanced at the clock. “Take fifteen.”
Santos didn’t need to be told twice. She slipped into the kitchen, snagging one of Mel’s cherry Danishes off the cooling rack. She ducked behind the prep table, tearing into it. Warm cherry filling spilled onto her apron.
She slid down onto the little stool and closed her eyes for a second, still chewing. God, she wished she’d remember her vape. Just one pull to take the edge off. She let her head tip back against the wall, breathing in the warm, bakery-sweet air.
She’d been working at the Café for almost a year now, which was long enough to know which pastries she was allowed to steal from Mel without getting a lecture. It was also long enough to know the rhythm of the place, the way the machines hissed, the way Dennis liked to hum under his breath, and the way Robby somehow kept everything from falling apart.
It wasn’t where she planned to be. Not originally. She was supposed to be in her last year of medical school by now. Supposed to be studying, rounding, doing all the things her mother still cared to remind her about.
Santos took another bite, ignoring the buzzing phone in her apron. Her mom again. She let it go to voicemail, same as always. Like clockwork.
Outside the cracked back door, early-fall Pittsburgh was still warm. The heat clung to the brick alley and made the air feel heavy.
She liked it here. Liked working for Robby, liked the team. The simplicity of it.
Mel glanced over from her station, noticed the missing pastry, then at Santos, who had crumbs and cherry filling all over her face.
Mel blinked. “Those were supposed to cool.”
“They’re cooling,” Santos said around a mouthful.
Mel hesitated, then went back to measuring flour. “You’re getting crumbs everywhere.”
“I’m on break,” Santos said, still chewing.
Mel just nodded, resigned. Santos leaned back against the counter, letting the quiet settle around her. Mel’s soft, rhythmic whispers to herself—counting, naming ingredients—filled the kitchen.
Santos tore off another piece of the Danish, warm cherry sticking to her fingers. “They’re really good, Mel.”
Mel’s head snapped up, her eyes brightened, and a wide smile appeared on her face. “Oh, thank you.”
She can be nice.
Fifteen minutes. Then she’d go back out there.
Robby poked his head into the kitchen. “Switch with Dennis. He wants to practice his espresso pulls.”
Santos groaned into her hands.
Poor souls, she thought, pushing off the counter. She tried wiping the stains from her apron—no luck—then washed her hands, splashed cold water on her face, and headed back out.
Dennis had taken his place at the machines, “I’ve been practicing at home,” he piped up, grinding beans.
“Watch the wand at the end,” Santos said, stepping around him, sliding behind the register. “There’s something wrong with it.”
“Oh, okay, thanks.” He said it with earnestness that guaranteed he’d burn himself if she didn’t warn him.
The door chimed, and both Santos and Dennis glanced over.
“Wasn’t expecting you today, Crash.” Santos teased.
Victoria stood in the doorway, ponytail slightly crooked, bookbag hanging off one shoulder, so heavy it looked like it was pulling her back. She let out a long, tired sigh. “I slam into the door once, and now I’m stuck with that nickname?”
“It was just…” Santos shrugged, tapping the screen to start her order. “Oh, so memorable.”
And it was.
About two months ago, Victoria had come in looking like she’d been wrung out—dark circles, scrubs rumpled, dirty chai to go. It might have been the glare off the glass, or maybe the pure exhaustion, but she’d walked straight into the door on her way out, drink spilling everywhere.
Santos had blurted, “Oh shit,” from behind the counter, frozen with a milk pitcher in her hand.
Robby had sprinted around the counter to help Victoria up, shooting Santos a look that said do not laugh—which of course only made it harder not to.
Victoria had waved them both off, cheeks pink, insisting she was fine. And from that moment, the nickname had stuck.
Back in the present, Victoria narrowed her eyes at Santos. “You’re never letting it go, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
Victoria rolled her eyes and leaned on the counter, “Do you guys have matcha now?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?” Victoria’s eyes widened. “You actually took my advice?”
“Yeah, whisk it in-house just for you.”
Victoria stared at her for a second before she pursed her lips into a pout. “You’re lying.”
“Obviously,” Santos said. “Robby doesn’t even know what matcha is.”
From one of the tables, where Robby was sweeping, he called out, “Victoria, don’t listen to her. Of course, we have mocha.”
Victoria made a face and turned back to Santos, while Santos didn’t even look up from the register. “Told you. So…iced dirty chai?”
“Yep,” Victoria said, resigned. “Can you add whipped cream?”
“Yep,” Santos flicked the modifier on the screen, then turned toward the espresso bar. “Medium iced dirty chai, with whip.”
“On it,” Dennis called back, happy to have his moment.
Victoria tapped her card, the reader chirping in approval. She stepped aside to wait, arms folded, as she watched Dennis prepare the drink.
When he finally slid the drink onto the pickup counter, she gave him a grateful nod and headed for an open table.
Her bookbag hit the chair with a heavy thud. She dropped into the seat after it, pulling out a textbook before she even settled.
Santos watched her for half a second before the door chimed again.
She turned to the door. A woman walked in wearing a black tee, short sleeves showing the clean lines of her arms. Jeans. Curly hair pulled back, but still a little wild. Dark brown eyes scanned the café.
She didn’t smile, but her presence tightened the air. Her eyes landed on Santos, and a small smirk appeared.
Santos straightened a little.
The woman’s gaze dipped once, then came back up, assessing. Santos held her gaze back, unblinking.
She liked the way this stranger was looking at her. Made her feel something she couldn’t name.
Santos swallowed, thumb hovering over the screen, suddenly aware of the frosting and crusty cherry-filling stains on her apron.
The woman stepped fully inside, letting the door close behind her. Victoria, from her table, looked between them, eyes darting back and forth, tablet pencil hovering over her screen.
Santos cleared her throat—her voice still cracked when she said, “Welcome—“. She winced, swallowed, tried again. “Welcome to the Pitt Stop Café.”
“Morning.” The woman’s voice was low and warm. Santos wanted to hear it again.
The woman tapped two fingers on the counter, a lazy rhythm. “It’s my first time here.” Her eyes stayed on Santos, “What’s good?”
Santos leaned forward, eyebrows raising. “Depends. What are you in the mood for?”
The woman pretended to think, gaze drifting over Santos in a deliberate sweep. “Something sweet.”
Heat crept up Santos neck, and she leaned back. “We have cinnamon rolls,” she said. “I frosted them.”
From the espresso machine, Dennis let out a dramatic fake cough.
Santos shot him a look.
The woman’s eyes dropped to Santos apron—the streaks of frosting, an amused hum escaping. “Yeah, I can tell.”
Santos breath hitched.
The woman leaned down to peer into the pastry case. “I’ll take…” She squinted at one of the pastries. “The shitty-looking cinnamon roll.”
“Hey,” Santos exclaimed, offended on principle.
The woman didn’t even blink. “It’s true.”
Santos followed her gaze and winced. The cinnamon roll in question was squished, icing sliding off one side.
“Why would Robby put that in the case?” she muttered.
The woman laughed under her breath, low and warm. “I’ll also take a medium Iced Americano.”
She stayed bent over the glass a moment longer, then straightened and met Santos' eyes again.
Santos tapped the order in, “Can I get a name for that?”
“Garcia.”
She grabbed a cup and uncapped a marker. Her hand moved across the cup, writing in loopy scrawl:
Garcia – hope your day is sweet
The second she finished the last letter, she regretted it.
She reached for another cup, ready to toss the first one, but when she looked up, Garcia was already watching her. One eyebrow raised.
Santos froze.
Garcia’s gaze flicked to the cup in Santos' hand, then back to her face, the corner of her mouth lifting, a glint of her pearly white teeth.
Santos swallowed and set the cup down. “Okay,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “Guess we’re going with that one.”
She slid the cup over to Dennis.
He read the message, snorted, and shook his head, the espresso machine whirring as the shots began to pull. “Smooth,” he murmured under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear.
Santos ignored him. Or tried to.
She grabbed the pastry tongs and reached into the case for the cinnamon roll, setting it carefully into a pastry box.
Santos snapped the lid of the pastry box and slid it across the counter to Garcia. “You’ll have to tell me how it is.”
Garcia tapped her card. Her eyes had caught on the two tip jars. A sign read: What’s your favorite number? With the jars marked 6 and 7. She stared at them for a beat.
“Who wrote this?”
“Which number calls to you?”
Santos lifted her hands and made a loose up‑and‑down motion between the jars.
Garcia looked between the jars once more, then pulled out her two bills and dropped one into each.
“It’s not even a good fucking question.”
Santos just rolled her eyes.
Garcia picked up the pastry box, looking into it, and turning the box.
“Wait, you made them and don’t know how they taste?”
“I said I frosted them, never said I made them.”
Garcia just hummed. “Guess I’ll have to come back to give you my review.”
Before Santos could think about it, she blurted, “Promise?”
Dennis slid the iced Americano onto the counter. Garcia picked it up, fingers curling around the cup, threw out a “thanks” towards him, and began walking backward toward the door, eyes never leaving Santos.
Santos bit her lip. Five minutes. It had been five minutes and she already—
She looked away first.
Halfway there, Garcia turned the cup slightly, reading the message Santos had written.
Her eyebrow lifted, flicking her gaze back to Santos. “Promise.”
Only then did she turn her attention to Victoria. She raised her chin in greeting. “Javadi.”
As the door swung shut behind Garcia, Santos finally tore her eyes away and looked toward Victoria.
Victoria was staring at her, wide-eyed, stylus tapping against the table.
Santos pointed at her. “Crash. How the hell do you know that fine specimen of a woman?”
Victoria just groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “Please don’t talk like that. That’s Dr. Garcia, she’s a fellow in my mom’s department.”
Santos blinked. "Your mom's—" She stopped. "Huh."
"Please," Victoria said.
"I didn't do anything."
"Trinity."
"I wrote on a cup. I do that. It's my job." Santos picked up a rag and wiped down the counter. "Don't make it weird, Crash."