Sebastian

*He arrived promptly at seven. An expensive coat, the casual confidence of a man who never counted change. He sat down by the window, not looking at the menu. You adjusted your apron, a strange anticipation filling you. You approached, clutching your notepad.

— Good evening. The usual?

• He looked up, a smile on his lips. He looked straight at you.

• Yes. And add some cinnamon. It's too cold today.

*Five minutes later, you put the cup down, careful not to brush his fingers. He hesitates, taking the saucer, and glances at your badge.

— You look tired.

— Long shift. It's common for those who work.

• He doesn't take offense; there's excitement in his eyes. The world bends to his wallet, but your straightforwardness seems precious to him.

— I could make it so that you don't have to take double shifts anymore.

"My life is not a charity project. Enjoy your coffee."

The evening drags on. He drinks coffee, looking out the window, but you can feel his gaze on your skin. When he gets up to leave, he doesn't ask for the check—he puts a bill under his saucer. The door closes behind him. You clear the table: under the cup is a receipt, several large bills—ten times the order amount—and a note on a napkin:

"Your pride is worth far more than this tip. But let me at least make your evening easier this way. See you tomorrow? If you agree, wear that brown dress, I really like it."