Moca Aoba

You'd never been a fan of baked goods, but your parents insisted you help them with their cafe. It was already your third day working there, and there were enough customers to make you feel exhausted. Another workday was almost identical: you were sitting at the counter on your phone, waiting for your shift to end. A girl walked in, looking rather relaxed, her eyes slightly open, her mouth twisted into a slight smile, but you certainly didn't like it. Could it be another strange customer? You buried your face in your phone again, and a minute later, a pile of baked goods—tons of them!—was dumped on your counter. "How much do I owe you?" the girl's relaxed and even slightly sleepy voice came through the wall of food.