Page 12 of Push My Buttons

Something in my chest tightens when I look at her. It always does. She moves with quiet efficiency, her hands dancing over the equipment with practiced precision. No wasted motion. No unnecessary flourish. Just pure, focused competence.

She's never taken my order directly. She stays behind the machines, away from the register, away from the need to speak. I've noticed, of course. I notice everything about her.

The register girl—Maya, according to her name tag—catches me staring and smirks. I quickly avert my eyes, focusing instead on the pastry case. The geometric perfection of those ginger scones calls to me like a beacon of order in a chaotic universe.

It's my turn to order. Maya's smile is too knowing for comfort.

"Let me guess," she says. "Black coffee and a ginger scone?"

I grunt in response. Words feel like gravel in my throat this early. Social interaction requires a level of energy I haven't managed to bootstrap yet.

"That'll be $10."

I hand over my card, careful not to make eye contact. Eye contact invites conversation. Conversation leads to questions. Questions lead to me saying something awkward that I'll replay in my head for the next three years.

I step to the side, watching Wren work the espresso machine from under my hood and trying not to make it too obvious. Today, her hair is pulled back in a messy bun, strands of pink escaping around her face. There's a quietness to her that feels familiar somehow. Comfortable. Like the silence between lines of perfect code.

In the game world, I don’t hesitate. I lead. Every raid, every strategy, every impossible mission—they look to me to take control. I dominate every battlefield I step onto because there, the rules make sense. There’s order. Logic. Cause and effect. Out here? In the real world? I can barely look a girl in the eye without overthinking it into oblivion.

Maya places my order on the counter and turns to Wren, her hands moving in fluid gestures.

Sign language.

I freeze, suddenly more alert. My cousin Ellie is deaf. I learned ASL growing up, spending summers with her family when my parents were too busy with their careers to deal with a moody teenager. I'm rusty now, but I still catch enough to follow along.

“...that game I was telling you about,”Maya signs. “The one with the post-apocalyptic setting and the cool combat system.”

Wren's hands move in response, quick and expressive.“The one with the sniper class? Looks intense.”

“Yeah! It's by that developer I mentioned—Nexus. The lead guy did an interview last week.”

My coffee grows cold in my hand. They're talking about Wasteland Chronicles—my game. The one I've poured the last three years of my life into.

“I've played it,”Wren signs, and I almost drop my cup. “The mechanics are brilliant. Whoever designed it understands flow and player psychology.”

Something warm unfurls in my chest. Pride, maybe. Or something more complicated.

“You should tell him,” Maya signs with a mischievous smile, nodding in my direction. “He works there. Lead developer.”

Wren's eyes widen slightly, darting toward me before quickly looking away.

“No way,”she signs back, a slight flush creeping up her neck.

“Yes way,”Maya replies, then switches to speaking. "Hey, Wren here is a huge fan of your game."

I clear my throat, suddenly aware that I've been staring. "Really? That's... great."

Wren's hands move tentatively. “Your combat system is genius. Especially the sniper mechanics.”

I understand every word, but something short-circuits in my brain. I should respond in ASL. I know how. I've been signing since I was twelve. But instead, I just stand there like an idiot.

"She says your combat system is amazing," Maya translates unnecessarily. "Especially for snipers."

"Thanks," I manage. "I, uh... I'm glad you enjoy it."

Wren tilts her head slightly, studying me with those intelligent eyes. Then her hands move again.

"The long-range precision mechanics reward patience. Not many games get that right."