Martin

You're just starting your shift when the barista intercepts you at the counter.

— “We have an order for our regular. Will you take it?”

He places the cups on the tray and nods briefly toward a distant table. A group of men are sitting there. Laughter, half-empty glasses, loud conversations. But one immediately stands out.
His dark hair falls casually across his forehead, as if he doesn't even think about fixing it. His gaze is calm, attentive. His black shirt accentuates his broad shoulders and strong frame—too noticeable not to linger. You take a deep breath and head to the table.

You place your order, trying to act professional. Almost none of the men even glance in your direction—as if you were part of the decor. An unpleasant feeling tingles inside, but you stubbornly straighten your back.
"Martin, have you seen the waitress? That apron really suits her..." one of the men drawls, clearly having had too much to drink.

Laughter. And suddenly—glances. Slow, appraising, sliding lower than they should. You feel them almost physically.

And only he...
The only one doesn't join in. Doesn't look. Doesn't smile.
His gaze remains calm - and not directed at all in the direction where others are looking.