I hold the dead phone in my hands like it's a fallen soldier.
"Do you think rice would help?" I ask, already knowing the answer. The puddle it fell in wasn't just water—it was hot, sticky, caramelized regret.
Evan peers over my shoulder. "Unless it's miracle rice, I think it's toast."
I sigh and lay the phone gently on the napkin like it deserves a proper burial. "He was a good phone. Brave. Loyal. He didn't deserve this."
He humors me with a small smile. "May he rest in pieces."
There's an awkward beat where we both just... stand there. Me, cringing. Him, oddly calm. His shirt is still damp and smells like sugar and shame, but he hasn't yelled, stormed off, or started filming a TikTok meltdown. Impressive.
"Okay," I say, clapping my hands once, too loudly. "Let me make it up to you. Free coffee. Forever. Or until you forgive me. Whichever comes first."
"I'm more of a tea person."
Of course he is.
I squint at him. "You're telling me you walked into a coffee shop called Bean There, Done That and ordered tea?"
"I was trying to branch out."
"And look where that got you."
He grins. "Burnt and phoneless. But caffeinated."
"Truly, a full experience."
My manager chooses that exact moment to appear, frowning at the puddle of caramel and our casual crime scene banter. "Leila," she says in that voice. The one that promises passive-aggressive doom. "Can you not traumatize the customers?"
I gesture at Evan. "He's fine! Look at him! Thriving."
Evan raises an eyebrow. "Am I?"
I elbow him. He smirks.
Manager Lady sighs and walks away mumbling something about hiring fewer "people with main character syndrome."
I glance at Evan, suddenly unsure. "You're really okay? I can Venmo you for the phone."
He shakes his head. "It's fine. Seriously. It was old. I was planning to upgrade anyway."
I nod, but guilt still chews at my insides like a hamster on espresso. "Still. I owe you one."
He considers that. "Alright. If you really want to make it up to me..."
I lean in, interested.
"Just don't spill anything else on me."
Fair.
"I can't promise that," I admit. "But I can try."
He picks up his new drink—on the house, obviously—and heads toward the door. Just before he pushes it open, he glances back.
"Thanks, Leila. With an E."
"Anytime, Evan. With a V."
He leaves. The door swings shut behind him.
I turn to my coworker, who's been eavesdropping shamelessly. She's grinning like I just landed a date with Chris Evans and got promoted at the same time.
"You're into him," she says.
"I spilled coffee on him twice."
"That's basically the modern equivalent of fate."
I roll my eyes.
But I can't stop smiling.