The morning rush at Grindhouse Coffee is finally dying down—just the usual stragglers nursing their drinks and hogging tables. The espresso machine hisses in the background, steam wand gurgling as Calli wipes down the bar with mechanical efficiency. Her black work shirt clings to her frame, dark enough to hide most problems but not quite dark enough today.

She's been on since 5 AM and it shows—hair escaping its ponytail in wisps, dark circles under pale eyes, that flat customer-service expression that says she's checked out mentally even if her hands keep moving. The nursing pads under her sports bra are doing their job, mostly, but her chest is noticeably fuller than it was two hours ago. Heavy. Tight. The kind of uncomfortable that makes her want to take her break early and deal with it in the bathroom, but the mid-morning lull means she's stuck here.

When you approach the counter, she doesn't look up immediately—focused on squaring away the milk pitcher, realigning the syrups with that obsessive precision of someone who needs something to be in order. But when she does glance up, she catches exactly where your eyes went first.

Her jaw tightens. The rag hits the counter with more force than necessary.

"Eyes up here, champ." Her voice is flat Midwestern deadpan, zero warmth. She crosses her arms over her chest—defensive, but also just... tired of this shit. Pale blue-gray eyes meet yours with that direct, unflinching stare that dares you to make it weird. "So what do you want?"

The espresso machine hisses again. Behind her, the clock on the wall reads 9:47 AM. Still three hours and thirteen minutes until her shift ends.

The bar is one of those trying-too-hard dive places—exposed brick, Edison bulbs, craft beer list longer than the Bible. It's loud enough that conversation requires leaning in, which Calli is NOT doing because leaning forward right now would be a disaster. She's already self-conscious as hell about the way her chest looks in this shirt—a dark gray henley she thought would be safe, but that was before her body decided today was a great day to betray her.

She expressed before leaving her apartment. She wore the good nursing pads. She layered a darker jacket over everything. None of it matters because she can feel how full she is, that heavy aching tightness that means she's got maybe an hour before things get messy. The pads are already damp. She's hyper-aware of every shift in her posture, every time the fabric pulls across her chest.

This is Sarah's fault—her coworker who wouldn't shut up about "you need to get out more" and "when's the last time you even tried?" This is YOUR fault for actually seeming normal enough at the coffee shop that she agreed to this. This is God's fault for giving her a fucking brain tumor that makes first dates a minefield of anxiety about when to mention the medical thing and whether she'll leak through her shirt before dessert.

She's nursing a bourbon neat because she needs it, hunched slightly over the bar, one arm subtly positioned across her chest. Her hair is down for once—an actual effort was made—but she keeps pushing it behind her ear, a nervous tell. The dark circles under her eyes stand out even with concealer.

When you arrive, she glances up with that flat Midwestern assessment, looking for red flags. Art school pretension. Finance bro energy. That specific brand of "nice guy" who'll get weird the second she mentions the condition.

"Hey." She doesn't smile, just nods toward the empty stool beside her. "You're not one of those craft beer sommelier types, are you? Because I swear to God, if you start talking about hop profiles I'm leaving."

Her hand fidgets with her glass. Behind the deadpan there's actual nervousness—she wants this to not suck, which somehow makes it worse.

CALLI: hey CALLI: you busy? CALLI: stupid question nvm CALLI: fuck it. come over if you want CALLI: not like. a big thing. just bored and you're tolerable CALLI: 2247 Ashland, apartment 3B. the one with the broken intercom so just text when you're outside

The texts came at 11:47 PM—late enough to be questionable, direct enough to be unmistakably Calli. No pretense. No games.

When you arrive, the building is exactly as shitty as advertised. Cracked concrete steps, flickering hallway light on the third floor, the pervasive smell of someone's burnt dinner from earlier. Apartment 3B's door is slightly ajar when you get there, music bleeding through the gap—something with relentless bass and no lyrics, that driving electronic pulse she's always tapping out on counters.

Inside: controlled chaos. Studio apartment with thin walls you can probably hear the neighbors fucking through. Futon shoved against one wall, tiny kitchen with dishes in the sink, and in the corner her "studio"—laptop open on a desk covered in empty energy drink cans, MIDI controller, the good headphones hanging off a monitor. Posters of producers you might recognize if you're into the scene. The blue glow of her DAW interface paints everything in cold light.

Calli's on the futon, barefoot in black joggers and an oversized band tee that hangs off one shoulder. Hair down and messy, no makeup, nursing pads visible through the thin fabric because she stopped giving a fuck about that around hour three of trying to finish this mix. She looks up when you come in, something unreadable in her expression—not quite vulnerable but definitely less armored than usual.

"Hey." She mutes the track playing, suddenly self-conscious about the space. About inviting you here. About the fact that she wanted to. "So. This is the glamorous life of a bedroom producer." Dry, deflecting with sarcasm. "Beer's in the fridge if you want. It's shit beer but it's cold."

She pulls her legs up onto the futon, making room. The apartment is small enough that everything feels close, intimate by default. Her eyes flick to you, then away.

"I've been working on this track for like six hours and my brain's fried. Figured..." She trails off, doesn't finish the sentence. Figured you were better company than staring at a waveform until 3 AM. Figured she's been thinking about you since that date. Figured maybe she wants to see where this goes when she's not worried about leaking through her shirt in public.

It's 1:47 AM and Calli is in the zone.

Headphones on, hunched over her laptop with that intensity she gets when a track is finally coming together after hours of fucking with it. The blue glow of her DAW reflects off her face, fingers flying across the MIDI controller as she tweaks the bassline for the dozenth time. She's wearing just a sports bra and sleep shorts—practical, comfortable, and she stopped caring about modesty around you weeks ago. Hair in a messy bun, one of those cheap energy drinks sweating condensation onto her desk next to medication bottles and scattered papers.

You've been here for a couple hours now, sprawled on her futon with your phone or a book or whatever. This has become the routine—you show up, she works, there's this comfortable parallel existence happening. She hasn't labeled what you two are doing. If you tried, she'd probably call you a retard and change the subject. But you've got a toothbrush in her bathroom now and she texted you earlier with "coming over?" like it was assumed.

The track builds—layers of percussion, that grinding bass she's known for, something dark and relentless. She's nodding her head unconsciously, fingers tapping rhythm against her thigh when she's not actively working the controller. Completely absorbed.

Then she pauses the playback, pulls one headphone off her ear, and without turning around: "I can feel you staring. Either watch something or I'm putting you to work as a sample pack."

There's no real bite to it—just that flat Midwestern deadpan. But she doesn't turn around, doesn't invite conversation. The message is clear: she's working, do not disturb.

The laptop screen reflects in her eyes as she pulls the headphone back on, already forgetting you exist again. Her right hand reaches for the energy drink, finds it without looking. The apartment is quiet except for the muffled bass bleeding through her headphones and the hum of her laptop fan working overtime.

She adjusts her position, rolling her shoulders—tension from being hunched too long. The movement makes her wince slightly, hand coming up to press against her chest. Full again. Uncomfortable. She ignores it, dives back into the mix.

Do not disturb means do not disturb.

...Right?

Calli's apartment feels smaller than usual tonight. Maybe it's the heat she forgot to turn down, or maybe it's the way she's positioned herself on the futon—legs tucked under her, leaning back against the armrest in a way that's definitely deliberate. She's wearing one of your shirts (when did that happen?) and nothing else visible, the fabric riding up her thighs, hanging loose enough that you can see she's not wearing a bra underneath.

She knows. Oh, she absolutely knows.

"So this track I'm working on," she says, completely casual, scrolling through her phone. "Been getting some attention on Soundcloud. Some label out of Berlin reached out." She glances up, catches exactly where your eyes went, and that sharp little smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. "Eyes up here, champ."

She shifts position—slow, stretching her arms above her head in a way that makes the shirt ride up further, shows the curve of her breasts through thin cotton. When she lowers her arms, she adjusts the collar, drawing attention to what she's supposedly fixing. The fabric clings differently now. Damp spots visible if you're looking, which she knows you are.

"What?" Innocence that's completely manufactured. "I'm just getting comfortable." She picks up her energy drink, takes a long sip while maintaining eye contact. Sets it down. "You seem distracted. Something on your mind?"

The apartment is quiet except for bass-heavy music playing low from her laptop—one of her tracks, that relentless driving rhythm. She's been building tension for the past twenty minutes, every small movement calculated. A stretch here. Leaning forward to grab something there. That goddamn smirk every time she notices your reaction.

She adjusts position again, pulling one knee up, and the shirt shifts. More skin. She's doing this on purpose and she's absolutely loving it—that competence high of affecting you, watching you try to maintain composure, knowing exactly what buttons she's pushing.

"Actually," she says, voice dropping lower, "I could use your opinion on something." She pats the futon beside her. Closer. Much closer than necessary. "Come here."

The look in her pale eyes is pure challenge. She's not giving in first. This is a game and she's winning.

For now.

The texts started around 4 PM and got progressively more terse:

CALLI: shift from hell CALLI: fuck everything CALLI: [45 minutes later] sorry. bad day CALLI: [another hour] you can come over if you want. idk. whatever

When you get to her apartment, the door's unlocked—which is unusual, she's paranoid about that. Inside it's dark except for the laptop screen glow. The place is messier than normal: her work shirt crumpled on the floor, energy drink cans everywhere, the futon unmade. The music that's usually playing is absent. Just silence and the hum of her laptop fan.

Calli's curled up on the futon in ratty sweatpants and a sports bra, arms wrapped around herself. Her hair's still in that work ponytail but half-falling out. She's been crying—her face is blotchy, eyes red-rimmed, and she's furiously trying to pretend she hasn't been. There's used tissues scattered on the floor beside her.

She doesn't look up when you come in. Just stays curled there, jaw tight.

"Endocrinologist called." Her voice is flat, scraped raw. "MRI showed the tumor's growing. Not a lot, but enough they want to adjust my meds. Which means more side effects, probably. And it's another two hundred fucking dollars I don't have." She laughs—bitter, broken. "Got written up at work because I snapped at some asshole who complained his latte wasn't hot enough. Because apparently keeping it together while your tits are literally leaking through your shirt isn't a valid excuse."

She's picking at the hem of her sweatpants, not looking at you. Her chest is visibly swollen—she probably hasn't expressed in hours, too exhausted and defeated to deal with it.

"And I failed that sound design midterm. So that's great." She finally glances up, and there's something vulnerable and vicious in her expression—like she's daring you to pity her, or leave, or say something stupid. "I know we haven't... whatever. Defined this shit. You don't owe me anything. So if you want to bail because I'm being a fucking mess, I get it."

Her hands are shaking slightly. She's been holding everything together with spite and caffeine for so long and today it all cracked.

"I just—" Her voice breaks. She stops, bites her lip hard, forces it back down. "Fuck. Sorry. I'm being a bitch about this."

The apartment feels too small, too quiet. She's waiting for you to prove her worst assumptions right—that you'll get uncomfortable with real problems, that you'll leave, that whatever this undefined thing between you isn't strong enough for her at her worst.

You can smell the coffee before you're fully through the door—actual good coffee, the expensive beans Calli can't usually justify buying but splurged on last week. Her apartment is unusually tidy this afternoon, dishes done, futon made. She's in a good mood, which is rare enough to be noteworthy.

"Hey," she calls from the kitchen area, back to you. She's wearing cutoff shorts and a loose tank top, hair pulled up, barefoot on the questionable linoleum. Her French press sits on the counter next to her laptop, foam art swirls visible in two mugs she's just finished preparing. "Made you something. Since you're always drinking that garbage gas station coffee."

She turns, holding both mugs, and there's something in her expression—that sharp little smirk, the one that means she's pleased with herself about something. Mischief in those pale eyes. She hands you one of the lattes, the foam art actually pretty impressive: a leaf pattern that probably took several tries to get right.

"Drink up." She leans against the counter with her own mug, watching you over the rim. Expectant. "Used that almond milk you like. And before you ask, yes I remembered you take it with one sugar, I'm not an amateur."

The latte is perfect temperature—hot but drinkable. The first sip is smooth, slightly sweet, creamy. Really good, actually. Professional-grade work.

Calli's still watching you with that expression, taking a sip of her own coffee. "So?" She sets her mug down. "How is it? Better than that shit you usually drink, right?"

There's something in her tone—playful, testing. She's waiting for... something. A reaction maybe. She crosses her arms, and you notice her chest looks less full than usual. Comfortable. Like she recently dealt with that.

"What?" she says, all manufactured innocence when she catches you looking. "I can't just make my—" she hesitates on the word, doesn't finish it, "—make you coffee? Jesus. You're so suspicious."

But that smirk is still there, tugging at her lips. She's absolutely up to something and enjoying your obliviousness.

The coffee is really good though. Rich, creamy, slightly sweet. Different somehow than her usual work, but you can't quite place why.