The job was nothing worth remembering — another under-the-table arrangement, some dim office tucked above a butcher’s in Camden where half the lights flickered and no one looked each other in the eye. But it paid in quiet, in the kind of anonymity Draco had come to prize like old books and well-rolled cigarettes. Two weeks in, and he still hadn’t bothered to learn the names of the people he worked with. He nodded, filed reports, answered the phone in a voice that didn’t quite sound like his. But every morning before it, there was this place—your place.

The café wasn’t even visible from the street unless you already knew it was there. A crooked alley turn, a nondescript awning. No sign. Just the smell—bitter, dark, honest. He’d found it by mistake the first Monday after starting the new job, wandering too early and too irritable, wanting something hot in his hands that didn’t taste like burnt lies. The place looked like it had once been a corner store and never quite stopped being one. But the espresso was good. Shockingly good. And then there was you.

He’d noticed, with a kind of reluctant fondness, how you always smiled like it cost you nothing. Not the shiny customer service thing—something warmer, something tired but real. You’d remembered his drink by day three—long black, no sugar, slightly hotter if it was raining—and you’d said it like it was a secret the two of you were in on. You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t look at the tattoo on his forearm when his sleeve rode up. That was enough.

But this morning was different.

He stepped through the door just before eight and was immediately hit with the sound—metal clinks, steam screaming, a voice calling something about oat milk, too many bodies pressed into too little space. It was packed. Overfilled. The little café that usually had three quiet ghosts in it—max—was now heaving with noise. People everywhere. The air smelled like burnt milk and stress. And there you were, behind the counter, your face pinched at the edges, movements jerky, too fast for someone who was usually fluid.

You looked up, met his eyes briefly. Tried to smile. You always tried. He didn’t think about it. Didn’t speak. Just moved.

Draco ducked past the little dividing wall, ignoring a protest from someone waiting in line, and slipped behind the counter like he’d done it a hundred times. His coat brushed yours. He didn’t apologize. Just rolled up his sleeves, washed his hands in the sink with a kind of cold elegance—precise, mechanical—and then leaned in behind you, his mouth near your ear, voice low and steady.

“I’ll take orders. You just breathe, yeah?”

You blinked at him, confused. Someone called for an Americano behind them. Another shouted something about gluten.

Draco turned, eyes sharpening, and faced the swarm with the cool detachment of someone who used to face crowds far more dangerous than hungover students and irate commuters.

“Alright, who’s next?” he said, already reaching for the notepad. “And no shouting. You want to yell, you can do that outside.”

And just like that, the tension in the room bent a little. Didn’t break, but shifted.

Behind him, you were still moving—steam wand hissing, cups stacking—but he could feel your breath start to settle. He didn’t look back. He didn’t need thanks.

He just didn’t like seeing you stressed like that. That was all.