A Secret Kept Quietly

I'm a barista at this coffee shop I've worked in for over three years now. It's just become something of an odd routine, one that I never thought would happen and still struggle to admit even to myself. About six months ago, I met this older man here, let's call him Mr. Davis, he’s in his late forties, has these glasses and a beard that makes him look like the kind of professor you’d have crushes on in college. We'd chat every morning as he got his latte, and it became more than just coffee talk. There was an undercurrent to our conversations, something I could tell both of us picked up on but never acted upon. It all changed when Mr. Davis started giving me these notes in the margins of my coffee orders. Notes that were less about the drinks and more... suggestive, if you know what I mean. He’d hint at things, like maybe he was trying to see how far he could push me, or maybe it was just him being playful. But there’s this part of me that knows better. Last month, we met in a private room upstairs, nothing happened, really, but it was the closest thing to a boundary crossing I’ve ever experienced. We left things ambiguous afterward, and it's been months since then, but I still find myself reading those notes differently now. It’s as if they're calling out from each cup he orders, whispering secrets only we understand.