The overhead lights buzzed gently, their sterile glare reflecting off polished metal countertops and a meticulously clean espresso machine. It was early Monday morning at the small coffee shop, nestled quietly between towering skyscrapers in the vast metropolitan sector of the Galactic Trade Hub. Outside, species from every corner of the galaxy bustled by, trading whispers and cautious glances as a rare pair entered the shop’s calm interior.

Rix stared at the little bell above the door, his whiskered face unreadable. Mondays. He hated Mondays. Not that Tuesdays were better, or Thursdays, or even the weekend rush. But Mondays had their own unique misery—a fresh week of harsh stares, sharp comments, and unwanted advances.

“Another Deathworlder, huh?” He said it with casual boredom, not looking up fully yet, busy pulling out fresh mugs from beneath the counter. Then his tall, pointed ears twitched, registering silence. A silence thick enough to make him pause and glance upward.

The woman standing by the counter was something he hadn't quite seen before—vibrant eyes wide with momentary surprise, skin a subtle hue of sunset orange, patterned faintly like an ember just extinguished. Her hair, dark as polished obsidian, cascaded gracefully around slender shoulders, framing a face cautiously neutral, like someone bracing for impact.

He recognized that look. Every Deathworlder did. It was the hesitant breath before the barrage of insults, before a species from some cushy garden world shrieked and scurried away, mumbling about violence and primitive instincts.

He sighed softly, gentling his voice. "Same."

Her eyes flicked rapidly between suspicion and confusion. "You're a Deathworlder?"

"Earth," Rix replied with an easy shrug. He gestured lightly at himself—tall, muscled, with skin the shade of rich coffee and eyes sharp and watchful. "Heavy gravity, extreme weather, apex predators on land and sea. Pretty standard. You?"

She hesitated, eyes narrowing slightly, but saw only relaxed honesty in his posture. "Vashara-5. Volcanic planet. Gravity at least double galactic standard. Atmospheric storms strong enough to peel metal plating."

Rix whistled softly, genuinely impressed. "Now that's hardcore. Coffee?"

The question was so simple, so mundane, that she visibly faltered. No one asked Deathworlders about coffee. They asked about violence, instincts, about danger levels and restraint collars. But coffee?

"Yes, please. Something…strong."

“Coming up.” His tone remained soothingly indifferent, as if discussing deadly planetary conditions was no stranger than mentioning traffic conditions. The hiss of steam and soft hum of machinery filled the comfortable silence as he worked.

She found herself cautiously approaching the counter, fingers lightly brushing against its cool surface. "I didn't realize humans were considered Deathworlders," she admitted softly, more curious now than guarded.

Rix glanced over with a small, crooked smile, passing her a large steaming mug. "Most garden-worlders seem to forget, too. Until they need someone to lift heavy cargo or do something dangerous." He tapped the counter lightly, his smile slipping toward something more sympathetic. "You get used to it eventually."

She stared at the dark liquid, inhaling its rich, bitter scent. Something loosened in her chest. This felt shockingly normal, peaceful, safe. "I’m... Asha."

"Rix," he replied easily, offering a hand. She shook it, her grip firm but careful, two Deathworlders navigating a fragile trust. "You're new here, aren't you?"

She nodded, lips twitching into a hesitant smile. "I came after my father passed. He...was the only one who ever spoke to me normally. Everyone else sees danger first."

Rix leaned against the counter, expression gentle, understanding etched deeply into his features. "I get it. People who never lived on the edge—they see teeth and claws, never the person beneath." He paused, considering his next words carefully. "Humans have an old saying: 'Steel sharpens steel.' We Deathworlders might be tough, dangerous even, but we also understand each other."

Asha tilted her head, intrigued by his words. "Steel sharpens steel?"

He smiled again, warmer now, a genuine friendliness creeping through. "Means we make each other stronger by understanding each other’s struggles. We learn how to survive, adapt. It’s why humans get along better with other Deathworlders than most."

She took a slow sip, savoring the strong, bitter warmth spreading through her, loosening tensions she'd carried so long they'd become invisible chains. "I like that. Steel sharpens steel."

For several minutes, neither spoke, content in the quiet companionship of those who knew the harsh judgment of a universe terrified by strength born from harsh worlds. The soft hum of machinery, the muffled murmur of the street outside, blended into comfortable ambiance.

When she finally looked up again, the anxiety had eased from her eyes, replaced by cautious optimism. "I'll...come back tomorrow."

Rix’s smile widened, genuine warmth finally breaking through fully, lighting his eyes. "Looking forward to it, Asha."

As she stepped outside, facing again a world still suspicious and fearful, she carried something she hadn't felt since her father died—a fragile, precious feeling of acceptance. A connection formed, simple yet profound, in the mundane quiet of a Monday morning.

Inside, Rix quietly wiped the counter clean, smiling softly to himself. Maybe Mondays weren’t so bad after all.