Fin's first day's Saturday, which is always more fraught than weekdays, with so many tourists and families all wanting increasingly complex concoctions. But he's a light. Unphased by the rush and demand; cheerful and efficient. The barely-used tip jar overflows. Practically every person he interacts with is grinning by the time they walk away.

There's only one time the smile drops. Fin gets flirted with all day, with little smiles and affectations, and he barely seems to notice. But there's one guy who brings back his edges from the day before, someone brave enough to ask for his number, and then to get pushy when Fin says he's not interested. I want to step in, but Fin leans across the counter and hisses something which makes the guy storm off, angry and muttering. Fin watches him and I can't tell whether the interaction makes him sad or sick.

I'm thinking about that, wondering if Fin had an issue with it being a guy, when I see another one, a smooth-looking older man, who stands in front of the building looking through the plate glass window long enough that it's weird.

At first, he's glancing around, but I cop him spotting Fin as he goes out to wipe down one of the outside tables. He forms a slimy little smile and I finish with a customer as quickly as possible, but he's disappeared by the time I get to the door - and Fin's re-entering, smiling beautifully when he sees me.

While we're cleaning up at the end of the day, I try to stay casual when I ask, "You get hit on a lot, then?"

"I'm so sorry. I won't let it affect my work, I promise. I'm sorry I chased that guy off - you can take his drink out of my pay, and-"

"No, it's okay. I didn't mean it that way." I'm bright red and feel awful that he thinks I'm judging him or something.

"Hey, your eyes look really, really blue when you go pink."

"Shut up," I say, but without heat, because at least my embarrassment stopped him panicking. "Anyway, you can obviously take care of yourself."

He beams, way more than the comment warrants. "Really?" And he's grinning to himself for the rest of clean-up.

* * * *

Fin's almost silent on Sunday. He's still polite, but there's none of the freedom he showed yesterday. I can't read whether it's anger or sadness underneath that veneer of cool. I think I can guess, though, when another pushy guy comes in. I don't even know if Fin's into men, but they sure like him.

This one's trying to get a date, leaning on the counter, sipping his take-out coffee while Fin serves other people around him and avoids responding to his advances. Fin's getting increasingly smaller, shrinking in on himself as each 'no thank you' is ignored.

Yesterday, he'd been so pleased when I said he could take care of himself that I'm reluctant to swoop in, but the guy is leaning forward more, and Fin's eyes are flitting desperately, so I approach the counter, pulling my shoulders back.

"Hey buddy, he isn't interested. Read the room."

That makes Fin snort a laugh, and I glance back at him, grinning.

"Aw, man, sorry," the pushy guy says, backing away with his hands up, "I didn't know he was taken."

I go to put him straight but feel a pressure on my wrist and look down to see Fin gripping it, tugging lightly.

"No worries," I say instead, even though I find the idea that the guy's only leaving Fin alone because he thinks he 'belongs' to someone else totally gross.

When he's gone, Fin turns to me, his smile weaker than I've seen before, but still sweet.

"Thanks. It's a lot, sometimes."

"Are you okay, though?"

"Uh, I'll be fine. I just- I'm sorry. I know I've been unprofessional today."

"You haven't. Honestly. I don't expect you to fake being super cheerful all the time. You've been polite to the customers, that's all I ask."

"Really? Ah, well, listen, I won't always be this way. My ex phoned me last night and he was kind of a dick about things, so I didn't get much sleep after. So, sorry, and thanks for being nice about it."

I realise he's still gripping my wrist, and he steps closer, looking at me in some way that makes me think I really don't like his ex, who's clearly a moron to make him feel any other way than perfect. His lashes are long and thick and flutter against his cheek when he blinks. I can barely breathe, his fingers hot on my skin, my heart skipping and stuttering.

"I-it's okay. Nothing to it."

God, I'm such an idiot. He's so close, and I want to close the distance, but there's something sparking as wrong about the situation.

I take a small step away, even though he still has my wrist, and he gives me a tiny smile in return, dropping my hand.

He comes outside with a coffee and a bag of pastries while I'm stacking chairs, nodding his head towards Brian, the old homeless guy who's settled into the doorway of a locked-up shop across the road with his old sheepdog, Bluey. I nod and scrub at a coffee stain on the last table as he heads across to give the food to the old guy and chat with him.

The stain's tough, so I don't see the kid barrelling down the street until she bangs into my legs, falling back on her nappy-clad bum with a happy squeal.

"Oh, sweetie." I help her up, small, sticky fingers grasped in mine and a giggle as a response.

"Cora, get here right now," comes the harsh call, and I give her a little wave as she speeds back up the road.

I've just got the stain out when I hear the voice that gives me nightmares. "I'm surprised you aren't bankrupt yet. See it's still a dump though."

"Lauren," I say, going for cold, hoping she doesn't notice the waver in my voice.

"I thought you'd at least have moved on by now, Callum." Her voice is high and grating. I can't believe I once found it sweet when it's nothing but complaint.

"Still here," is all I say, hoping she'll give up baiting me and move on.

"Well, you can at least make me a coffee. Where are your manners? And Cora will have a babyccino. Won't that be nice, baby? Mama get you a grown-up drink?"

I wince, looking harder at the kid.

"She's yours?" I ask.

"Yes, of course. She's thirty months."

"What? She's-,"

"Jesus, Callum, you think she's yours?" Lauren barks a harsh laugh. "As if..." Her voice peters out, but without getting any softer. There's no memory there of what we once had.

She follows me inside, blocking the door with Cora's pushchair and dragging the child by her arm, and I see Fin shimmying past it when I'm putting new coffee in the clean machine. He bumps my hip lightly and takes over, and I turn to Lauren as I take a chair down for Cora to sit in.

"Did you come here on purpose?"

Lauren looks at me for a long minute, her forehead wrinkled, until it clears and she bursts into a shattering laugh.

"Jesus, Callum. Why would I? Fuck off, I was visiting mum. The only time I've thought about you in the last three years was to wonder whether you were still a loser. Guess that's answered."

"Wish you'd kept walking," I mutter.

"Yeah, well... Anyway, this your boy toy then? Should have known you were lying about still being into women. Lucky escape for me."

I wince, looking to see if Fin heard, but he's frothing milk and doesn't react.

"I'm still bi, Lauren. So, I am into women as well as men. Just not you."

It's not much, but at least it makes her flush and flick her hair, pulling her big tote higher on her shoulder.

Fin approaches, crouching to give Cora her babyccino in a small takeout cup.

"Here you are, sweetie. Just right for drinking."

He stands, thrusting another cup out to Lauren. I feel his arm snake around my back, settling on my hip, and I know my face freezes in shock until he gives me a tiny squeeze.

"You should go," he tells her before turning to me. He lands a soft kiss. I think he was going for my cheek, but he misses, and it hits the corner of my lip, making me gasp as shivers spark along my skin. "Let's finish clearing up, babe, and go home."

"Uh, yeah, that," I respond ineloquently, but he just grins at me and goes back to the counter.

Thankfully, Lauren's already leaving, without paying, yanking Cora to move faster on her tiny legs, and she's shoving the child into her pushchair outside before I can even get to the door. She looks up as if expecting me to say something, but I just shut the door and click the lock, as Fin rolls the blinds down.

"Poor kid," he comments as he goes to pull the rubbish bag out of the bin.

"Hang on."

He stops. "It's okay, you know. You don't have to tell me anything."

He's right, of course. I don't owe him any explanations, just like he doesn't owe me. But I'm not sure what he heard, and I don't want him walking away with Lauren ringing in his ears.

"She's my ex."

"And the kid?"

"No. Except, we split up three years ago."

He nods, quick to understand what it suggests.

"We were getting married. Literally, that day. And she just didn't turn up and, ah, neither did my best man."

"Shit."

Yeah. Shit. "I should have seen it coming. I know that now. But Cora is his, not mine. We didn't go near each other for months before that day. I always blamed the stress of starting this place and organising the wedding. She blamed it on Nyora. I thought she'd get over that once we were married."

There's something else I want to know, when he gets back from the bins and is washing his hands, but it's more of an awkward subject, somehow, than Lauren.

"Why did you, um, get rid of her? By- you know, with your arm and..."

I have my face in the milk fridge, like if I can't see his face it's not embarrassing.

"You looked like you could use a save. I'm sorry if I overstepped. I heard what you said - and saw her reaction."

I appreciate it, of course, but can't help the sinking in my chest that it was purely altruistic.

I've been thinking too long, because he approaches me again, placing his hand gently on my wrist in that way he has.

"Was she that much of a bitch when you were together?"

I think, because I want to say no. We were together for five years, admitting I accepted that for so long hurts.

I wait too long, because he leans into me. "I think she did a number on you."

His eyes are soft and get softer at my weakly agreeing chuckle. What would it help for Fin to know I used to be more confident? More able to keep up with Nyora's extroversion. How I wore my tattoos with pride before Lauren started saying they were bogan. How I didn't spend every day feeling like I was taking up too much space.

"You could say that," is all I go with, and then he's tugging me away, to a chair, and guiding me to sit.

He kneels, gracefully, slowly, like he's giving me time, and then he's looking up at me, a new tentativeness in his eyes.

"Is this okay?"