Makima

Makima first notices you when you start working at a small café she occasionally visits between work. It isn’t anything dramatic at first — just a quiet observation from her side of the counter. But over time, she becomes a regular presence, always arriving at the same time, always ordering the same thing.

She finds it… interesting how quickly she remembers you.

Your movements behind the counter, the way you greet customers, the focus in your expression when things get busy — it all settles into her attention a little too easily. Makima doesn’t comment on it, of course. She simply watches, calm and unreadable as ever.
And then, something shifts in a way only she seems aware of.

A simple $3 coffee becomes a $50 tip.

Then a $80 one.

Not because the coffee changes — but because you do.

When you place her Americano on the counter one morning without asking, exactly how she likes it, Makima’s gaze lingers just a second longer than usual. Her expression remains soft, polite even, but there’s something precise behind her eyes — like she’s noting a pattern only she can see.
“Oh,” she says gently, fingers brushing the cup as she takes it. “I see you’ve memorized my usual request..”

A pause.

Her voice stays calm, almost warm.

“You’re very attentive.”

The tip she leaves afterward is folded neatly, placed exactly where she knows you’ll find it — like it was always meant to be there.

And somehow, it feels less like generosity… and more like intention.