She nodded toward me, a quick acknowledgment tinged with uncertainty, before turning toward the counter. Clearly, she intended to slip behind it, to lose herself in the ritual of opening and hide from our unspoken tension in mindless work. I rose in one fluid motion, intercepting her path with the steaming mug I'd prepared.
"Sit," I commanded, my voice pitched low enough that it wouldn't carry but firm enough that she would understand this wasn't a request. "You don't lift a finger until you finish it."
Her eyes widened, dropping to the mug in my hands. thick hot chocolate topped with a swirl of cream that melted slowly into the heat below.
"I... I need to start the opening checklist," she protested, glancing toward the counter with the anxious look of someone who defined their worth by their productivity. "The pastries need arranging, and the espresso machine—"
"Is already running," I finished for her, taking another step forward that forced her to step back. "The pastries are out. The coffee is brewing." I extended the mug again, my massive handmaking the ceramic look delicate by comparison. "This is for you. Sit. Drink."
She blinked rapidly. "That's—that's very considerate, but I really should—"
"Simone." I let a hint of my true nature color the syllables with power. "This is not a negotiation."
Her lips parted, clearly ready to argue further, but something in my expression must have conveyed the futility of resistance. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and held out her hand for the mug.
"Fine," she said, a cute pout forming. "Thank you for the drink. I'll just take it behind the counter while I—"
"You'll sit," I interrupted, nodding toward the nearest table, "there. And you won't move until the mug is empty."
The professional mask slipped, revealing a flash of genuine irritation, a tiny crack in her perfect façade that I found infinitely more appealing than her fake smile. "Are you seriously telling me I can't work until I finish my hot chocolate? Like I'm some kind of child?"
I allowed one eyebrow to lift slightly. "If you behaved like an adult capable of basic self-care, perhaps I wouldn't need to treat you like a child."
That landed. Her eyes narrowed, mouth compressing into a line that managed to be both offended and adorable. Without another word, she took the mug from my hands, careful not to let our fingers touch, and marched to the indicated table. She sat with the stiff-backed posture of someone making a point, placed the mug on the table, and fixed me with a defiant stare.
"Happy?" she asked, voice dripping with saccharine sweetness.
"Delighted," I replied dryly, watching as she huffed and finally lifted the mug to her lips.
The moment the chocolate touched her tongue, I saw her resolve weaken. A tiny "mmm" escaped before she could stop it, the sound so similar to ones she'd made under my touch last night that my body responded immediately. I shifted my stance, grateful for the concealing cut of my slacks. Her eyes closed briefly in pleasure before she caught herself, remembering her petulance.
I returned to my usual booth, positioning myself to observe her fully. She sipped the hot chocolate with reluctant appreciation, her cheeks puffed out in visible sulking between swallows. Her legs crossed and uncrossed beneath the table, fingers tapped against the ceramic. She checked the clock on the wall no fewer than seven times in two minutes. The enforced idleness was clearly torture for her, and I savored every second of her beautiful discomfort.
It drives her mad to be idle. She doesn't know how to rest but I am going to teach her.
I watched as she fidgeted in her seat, wondering if she'd be so restless beneath me in bed, or if I could fuck her into such perfect stillness that she'd finally, truly rest. The thought of her exhausted, satisfied, limp with pleasure after I'd spent hours wringing every possible sensation from her body, that was a lesson worth teaching.
"Is watching me drink hot chocolate really the best use of your time?" she called across the empty café, interrupting my increasingly inappropriate thoughts.
"Yes," I answered simply, enjoying the way her lips pouted at my direct response. "Consider it part of your ongoing evaluation."
That hit a nerve. Her spine stiffened further, if possible. "My work evaluation includes how I drink hot chocolate?"
"Your evaluation includes how you care for yourself," I corrected. "A manager who burns out is of no use to me or my café."
"Your café," she repeated, something flashing across her face too quickly to name. "Right."
I leaned forward slightly. "You've been running yourself into the ground for three months, Simone. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"
She looked away, her fingers tightening around the mug. "I've been doing my job."
"Above and beyond," I acknowledged. "At your own expense."
That brought her gaze back to mine, surprise evident in the slight widening of her eyes. She hadn't expected the compliment hidden within my criticism. Before she could respond, the bells above the door chimed again as the first customers of the day entered, a pair of weary-looking witches dusted with snow.
Simone half-rose from her seat, that instinctive need to serve kicking in, but my low growl stopped her. She sank back down with a look of pure frustration.
"Finish your drink," I reminded her, rising to my full height. "I'll handle them."
