Jamie Reed’s Third Job

Jamie learned the rhythm of exhaustion the way other people learned songs. There was a tempo to it. A drag behind the eyes. A dull ache that settled into his calves by noon and stayed there, loyal, through midnight. He woke to it now, the ache already awake before he was, like it had business to attend to. The ceiling above his bed had a crack shaped like a river. He’d named it once, back when naming things made them feel less temporary. Now he just stared at it, phone buzzing against his palm.

8:14 a.m.

He rolled onto his side and reached for the alarm that had failed him. Again. The room smelled faintly of detergent and yesterday’s coffee. Cold. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there longer than he should have, elbows on knees, breathing through the heaviness. Third job day.

He showered fast. Too fast. The water barely warmed before he stepped out, skin prickling as he dragged a towel over himself. His reflection in the mirror looked thinner than last week or maybe that was just the light. He pressed his fingers beneath his eyes, then stopped. No time. Jamie pulled on jeans that had seen better days and a hoodie with a fraying cuff. He checked his wallet out of habit. Two bills. A few coins. He closed it gently, like it might bruise.

Outside, the city was already loud. Buses hissing. Someone arguing on a phone. The sky hung low and gray, undecided. Jamie joined the stream of people moving with purpose, even if his own felt borrowed. The café smelled like burnt espresso and sugar when he pushed through the door. Bells chimed overhead, cheerful in a way that felt mocking this early.

“You’re late,” Mrs. Calvino said without looking up.

“Sorry,” Jamie said. “Bus….” She waved him off. “Apron. Go.”

He tied it, hands moving automatically. The café was narrow, all sharp angles and mismatched chairs. It paid cash under the table and asked no questions, which meant Jamie didn’t either. He took orders, wiped tables, smiled when it mattered. His feet found the sticky spot near the register without thinking. By noon, his head buzzed. Orders blurred together. Latte. Americano. Oat milk, no foam, extra hot. He repeated them under his breath like spells, afraid if he didn’t, something would fall apart.

During a lull, he leaned against the counter and checked his phone.

EVAN: u alive

JAMIE: barely

EVAN: u eating today

JAMIE: define eating

Evan sent a string of angry emojis and a picture of a sandwich that looked like it had been constructed with care. Jamie smiled within himself. He clocked out at two. Didn’t sit. Didn’t rest. Just peeled off the apron and stepped back into the street, the city already shifting gears around him. His stomach growled. He ignored it.

The campus library was cool and smelled faintly of old paper and disinfectant. Jamie slipped into a seat near the back, dropped his bag, and opened his laptop. He stared at the screen until the words began to make sense again. Notes. Citations. A paragraph that refused to come together.

His mind drifted. Not far. Just enough.

Adrian.

The name surfaced without permission. He hadn’t said it out loud since that night. Hadn’t even thought it deliberately. Still, the memory pressed in. The weight of the man’s attention. The way the bar had seemed to bend around him. Jamie shook his head once, sharp. Focus. At five, he packed up. At six, he stood at the bus stop with the rest of the city’s tired people and waited. At seven, he was back at Bar Della Luna, tying his apron again, fingers sore, shoulders tight. Third job.

The bar looked different at night. Softer. More dangerous. Lights low enough to forgive things. Music that slipped under the skin instead of over it. Jamie took his place behind the counter and let the familiar motions carry him. He didn’t expect Adrian to come back. That was the lie he told himself, anyway.

Every time the door opened, his chest tightened. He hated that. Hated the way anticipation crept in, uninvited. Hated that part of him, the part that had noticed the absence the night before, and the night before that.

“Earth to Jamie.” He blinked. Mara stood in front of him, eyebrows raised. “Table needs menus,” she said. “And you’re staring at nothing.”

“Sorry.” She watched him for a second longer than necessary. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” She didn’t look convinced, but she let it go. The rush came and went in waves. Jamie poured drinks, slid glasses across the bar, laughed at jokes that weren’t funny. A man leaned too close once. Jamie shifted away, polite but firm. Another tried to catch his wrist. Jamie pulled back, smile tight.

“Hands,” he said quietly. The man scoffed, but he listened. Jamie felt the familiar hum of irritation settle in his bones. He didn’t have the energy for this tonight. Or any night. He took a breath, counted to three, and turned away. The door opened. This time, the room noticed.

Jamie didn’t look right away. He knew. He felt it in the way the air went still, the way sound seemed to lower itself. When he did look, Adrian stood just inside the bar, black jacket open, posture relaxed like he owned the space without trying. Their eyes met. Jamie’s heart stuttered. He hated that too. Adrian didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. His attention landed and stayed. Acknowledged. Chosen.

Jamie forced himself to look away and keep working. He could feel Adrian watching him anyway, like a heat source at his back. He hated that it steadied him. Evan appeared at the bar an hour later, elbows planted, eyes bright. “There he is,” he said loudly. “The man of the hour.” Jamie groaned. “Please don’t.”

“Too late.” Evan’s gaze flicked toward the corner booth. “That him?” Jamie hesitated. “Maybe.” Evan squinted. “He looks expensive.” Jamie snorted despite himself. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is absolutely a thing.” The corner booth was occupied again. Like it had been waiting. Mara slid Jamie a glass. “Same order.” Jamie wiped his hands on his apron. His pulse picked up, annoying and insistent. He approached slower this time, aware of the way his body felt; too visible, too warm.

“Whiskey,” Adrian said. Not a question. Jamie poured it. The sound felt loud in his ears. He set the glass down carefully, then straightened. “You didn’t come back,” Jamie said before he could stop himself. Adrian’s gaze lifted. Something like amusement flickered there. “I’m here now.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” Jamie exhaled. “Why do you keep coming?” Adrian took a sip. Watched him over the rim of the glass. “You don’t like obvious answers.”

“Try me.” Adrian set the glass down. “Because you work too much.”

Jamie stared. “That’s not….”

“Your third job,” Adrian continued calmly. “This one.” Jamie’s stomach dropped. “How do you….”

“You smell like coffee,” Adrian said. “And old books. You have ink on your thumb.” His gaze flicked there, precise. “University.” Jamie felt suddenly exposed. Not naked. Seen. He crossed his arms without meaning to. “You don’t get to profile me,” he said. Adrian leaned back slightly. Gave him space. “You’re right.” That startled him more than the assessment had.

A man brushed past the table. Too close. Jamie felt it before he registered it—Adrian’s hand lifting, stopping just short of touching Jamie’s knee. The man muttered an apology and moved on quickly. Jamie’s breath caught. “You didn’t have to….”

“Yes,” Adrian said quietly. “I did.” The word sat between them. Heavy. Uncomfortable. Jamie didn’t know what to do with it. Across the room, Luca watched, posture tight, eyes everywhere at once. Near the doorway, Lily Grant paused, gaze sharp as she took in the scene; Adrian leaning in, Jamie unaware of the storm he’d stepped into. Jamie swallowed. “I should get back.”

Adrian nodded. “Finish your shift.”

“And then?”

“I’ll wait.” Jamie hesitated. He thought of the café. The library. The empty apartment. The ache that never quite left. “Why?” he asked. Adrian’s gaze softened, just a fraction. Dangerous in its own way. “Because you shouldn’t walk home alone.” Jamie nodded before he could think better of it. From somewhere deep and unseen, La Corona Nera shifted its attention. And Jamie Reed, on his third job of the day, stood at the center of it; tired, stubborn, and unaware of how much the night had already decided to claim.