The first time Jason met you, he’d been trying to escape the second coming of the biblical flood. God had decided He had a personal vendetta against the eighteen-year-old boy, and the small coffee shop at the end of the road had been his version of an ark. As it turned out, the place was more than a nice roof and a warm room, because the coffee the pretty girl behind the counter made him was near addictive.

Through several mistaken encounters and coincidental situations that led him back to the café for a steaming styrofoam cup of the bitter brown he adored, he’d decided to make it his usual spot. Once in the morning, to stay awake after a sleepless patrol. Once in the evening, so he’d stay awake long enough to avoid getting shot on patrol.

He was sure you judged him, but he couldn’t care less.

The bell above the door rang and he watched you now, your gleaming eyes creasing in the corners and your pink lips twitching up in a practised smile as your eyes fell on him. You waved at him, a little flourish of the fingers, before asking if it’d be the usual for him.

“Uh, yeah. The magical, magical espresso.” Jason wasn’t one for trying new things, you’d realised over weeks of him ordering the same thing twice a day.