The sky outside was streaked with gold. Late afternoon sunlight poured in through the dusty front window, washing the tables in a warm hue.
The chaos had passed.
Only two untouched tables remained in the entire shop.
Emily leaned her head back against the wall behind the counter, her ponytail brushing against the brick.
"That," she said, eyes closed, "was insane."
Max laughed, low and tired. "Yeah. You handled it like a pro."
"I've bartended weddings with open bars and no AC. This was nothing."
She glanced at him. "But you? You were in the zone."
He shrugged. "I barely remember half of it."
"You crushed it."
---
They sat in silence for a while, both sipping what was now more ice than coffee.
The air smelled of toasted bread and something faintly herbal—probably the basil still clinging to his apron.
Max turned to her, hesitant. "You said something earlier—about a name tag and a raise. You were joking… right?"
Emily smirked. "Mostly. But also… not really."
He raised an eyebrow.
She leaned forward, more serious now.
"Max, be honest. You gonna keep running this place alone? After today? After this morning?"
He didn't answer.
Not because he didn't know—but because he did.
He shook his head slowly. "No. I can't. Not if this keeps up."
Emily gestured around. "It will. Especially if that blog keeps gaining views. This place is blowing up."
She paused, then added, "But you need more than help. You need *structure*."
---
Max tilted his head. "Structure?"
She sat up straighter, the business tone slipping into her voice.
"Okay—just look at it objectively."
She pointed at the overhead lights.
"These fluorescents? Harsh. They make the food look pale."
She pointed at the wall.
"Bare brick is fine, but it's too cold. Needs warmth. Maybe wooden shelving, hanging herbs. Something that says *'chef lives here'*."
She tapped the menu board behind him.
"And that? I can barely read it from six feet away. You need something bolder. Branded."
Max blinked. "You've thought about this."
Emily chuckled. "I *do* interior branding and café launches. It's literally my job."
---
He stared at her.
Then laughed. "Of course it is."
She nudged him lightly with her elbow. "You think I was just coming here for eggs and sarcasm?"
"Honestly? Kinda."
---
She pulled out her phone, scrolled for a second, then handed it to him.
On the screen were photos of cozy cafés, custom menus, hand-painted signs, smart lighting setups.
"My company did all these," she said. "But I freelance too. If you want—if you're open to it—I can help."
Max stared at the photos.
Each one looked like it had *soul*.
They weren't just pretty—they felt like places you'd want to spend your morning in.
He swallowed. "I don't know if I can afford anything fancy right now."
Emily waved a hand. "Let's start small. No pressure. Let me sketch some ideas. Paint here. New lights. Maybe plan for an open kitchen vibe?"
She paused, then added gently, "This food deserves a stage. Don't hide it."
---
Max looked around his shop.
It was clean. It was functional.
But it was also plain.
Too plain.
He imagined one of those hanging chalk menus with artistic calligraphy. Copper lights casting warm glows. Wooden shelves lined with fresh herbs and jars. Soft music. Branded coffee cups.
People snapping photos. Staying longer.
Coming back.
---
He looked back at Emily.
"Okay," he said. "Let's do it. Show me what this place *could* be."
She grinned. "Good. I already have ideas."
Then she added with a mock-serious tone, "But I'm charging double if you keep pretending you're not secretly enjoying this."
He laughed again.
And something in him felt lighter.
---
They spent the next hour walking through the shop.
Emily took photos, measured the wall behind the register, stood on a chair to see how the lighting cast shadows on the counter.
Max followed, occasionally adding, "That's where the bread goes," or "I prep the soup there."
She listened. Asked questions. Suggested tweaks.
And somehow, **they didn't feel like two people talking business**.
It felt like… partnership.
Like building something.
---
At one point, she stood back, hands on her hips, eyes narrowed.
"You know," she said thoughtfully, "with the right adjustments, this place could be on a food tour map."
Max snorted. "That's a stretch."
"Is it?" she asked. "Your grilled cheese had three people moaning out loud today. And don't get me started on the soup."
He smirked, but inside, he felt something flicker.
Hope.
---
Later that evening, after she left with promises of sending mockups and a list of cheap suppliers, Max sat alone at the counter.
He looked at the chalkboard.
The old lights.
The half-empty basil jar.
Then he opened his notebook and wrote:
> – Hire part-time staff
> – Update logo/menu board
> – Lighting (ask Emily)
> – Shelving, wall texture
> – Train assistant chef (someday?)
> – Design small brand identity
> – Dessert testing next week?
He paused.
Then added one more line:
> – *Keep building. Slowly. Beautifully.*
---