Love, Lies & Lattes

It happened at 7:12 a.m.

The sun hadn’t fully risen, the café doors were just unlocking, and Kiara had barely taken her first sip of coffee when a strange rattling sound rose from the back of the counter.

Then a crack. A sharp, mechanical whine.

And silence.

Dead silence.

Meera poked her head out from the kitchen. “That didn’t sound good.”

Kiara slowly turned to the espresso grinder—the heart of the café’s morning operations—and stared at it as if sheer will could revive it. She flipped the switch. Nothing.

“Don’t do this to me,” she muttered, crouching to inspect the base. She wiggled the cord. Checked the reset button. Gave it a light slap.

Still dead.

Then her phone buzzed.

Supplier: “Stuck in traffic. Your new beans won’t arrive till tomorrow. Can’t help it. The highway’s flooded.”

Kiara read the message twice.

No grinder. No beans. No signature blends. On a Monday.

Meera approached cautiously. “Okay, breathe. We have backup beans, right?”

Kiara looked at her like she’d suggested serving instant coffee. “The backup beans are for emergency training runs. You want me to serve that to regulars who expect Ethiopian Gold and Kerala Black Pearl?”

“We could—”

“No,” Kiara said sharply, pacing. “There’s still an old manual grinder in the back. It’s slow, but if we pre-grind in small batches…”

Meera raised an eyebrow. “The one from your college café days? Isn’t it basically a glorified pepper mill?”

Kiara was already rushing to the back, calling out, “Every second we waste, we lose trust. And trust is harder to fix than machinery.”

---

Fifteen minutes later, Kiara stood at a prep table, sleeves rolled up, knuckles tight on the hand-crank of the old grinder. Sweat dotted her brow. The café was filling with early regulars—business types, freelancers, commuters. People who needed caffeine before they became monsters.

She passed the first tiny jar of freshly ground beans to Raj, their youngest barista.

"Double shot. Use it like gold. Waste even a gram and I’m docking your playlist privileges."

Raj nodded, wide-eyed, as if being handed state secrets.

“Meera!” Kiara barked. “Adjust the prep sequence—cold brews first. Those we can prep without the grinder. Prioritize drip orders next. Anything that needs espresso, we stagger and rotate grinding by hand.”

Meera blinked. “You’re running the café like a military kitchen.”

“I’m running it like I’ve got one working grinder and twenty sleepy Delhiites who will riot if they don’t get their oat milk flat white in the next fifteen minutes.”

Outside, someone knocked impatiently on the window, pointing at their watch.

Kiara ground faster.

---

For the next two hours, it was chaos. But controlled chaos.

Kiara took turns grinding, instructing, calming customers with charm, and sneaking in quick repair attempts on the electric grinder between batches. Her palms ached. Her back throbbed. At one point she spilled an entire jar of grounds and nearly screamed.

But not a single customer left without coffee.

By 10:00 a.m., the worst was over. The manual grinder was wheezing, her hands were blistered, and Meera was feeding her protein bars like she’d come out of battle.

Raj approached with a sheepish grin. “One guy said the espresso tasted better today. Something about it being ‘earthy and intimate.’”

Kiara let out a breathless laugh, slumping onto a stool.

“You know what’s earthy and intimate?” she muttered. “Manual labor.”

Meera passed her an ice pack. “You were on fire today.”

Kiara exhaled slowly, the adrenaline finally fading. “We made it work. Just barely.”

Later that night, curled on her sofa with a heating pad and a mug of plain ginger tea, Kiara finally opened her phone. There was a message waiting for her on Cupid’s Café.

Ro: “Tough day? My sixth sense says yes.”

She stared at the screen, then slowly typed:

Kiara: “My espresso grinder died in the middle of a Monday morning rush. I used a hand grinder to survive.”

Ro: “That’s… hardcore. I salute your wrists.”

Kiara: “They might file for emancipation tomorrow.”

Ro: “On the bright side, you now officially qualify as a caffeine war veteran.”

Kiara smiled—really smiled—for the first time all day.

Kiara: “Remind me why I’m talking to someone who finds my trauma entertaining?”

Ro: “Because I’m the only one who gets it.”

She paused.

He was right.

Whoever Ro was, he understood the grind—literally. And in that moment, she didn’t care where he was from, or what he did, or whether he preferred bold roast or medium.

He listened.

He got it.

And for tonight, that was enough.