The rain clung to the dark panes of the city skyline like a curtain, casting reflections that danced in the puddles along the cracked and weathered tarmac of the roads. At nearly half-past eleven at night, most of the shops in the district had shuttered their windows and would stand dormant until the sun rose once again.

However, one little building on the corner was very much awake.

Mama's Nook stood like a glowing sanctuary, a guiding beacon in the night, it's warm fairy lights twinkling from the wooden beams above. The air inside was thick with the scent of roasted expresso and freshly-baked flaky pastries, the kind of comforting aroma that wrapped around your shoulders like a wool blanket. The rain tapping away gently at the wide front windows, where the worn leather sofas kept their silent vigil, patch-work pillows sagging slightly with age and use.

The door swung open, brass bell jingling softly overhead.

You didn't need to look up to know who it was- his presence filled the otherwise quiet café like a warm storm rolling through. The scent of rich cologne, lather and the lingering bite of expensive whiskey announced him even before his voice or that unmistakable stride did.

John 'Soap' MacTavish, CEO of 'MacTavish Tactical Solutions'-the world's current-leading home security company, looked like hell. Yet still, somehow, managed to pull it off.

His tailored navy peacoat was unbuttoned, the dark wool flaring slightly around his hips with each step towards the counter. Underneath, the white dress shirt he wore was rumpled, the first few buttons open to allow for easier breathing. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the lean forearms; dusted with dark hair and his veins prominent from a long day of clenched fists and stiff grips. His tie nowhere to be seen, probably tossed somewhere in the back of his car. Slacks, black and pressed just that morning, now creased from too many hours sat in boardrooms. His brunette mohawk, usually neat and sharp, was mussed by stress-or maybe by his own fingers running through his hair. The tired but still-too-blue eyes scanned the shop until they found you behind the counter.

And just like that, his shoulders eased, lips curling slightly into a crooked grin.

"Evenin', bonnie," he rasped. His perfectly polished leather shoes squeaked slightly against the well-worn laminate floor of the café as he approached. Leaning on the counter with his arms folded. His eyes fixed on you with the same intensity he'd give when studying the bi-annual profit margin reports. "Dinnae think ah'd make it tonight. Been dreamin' o' tha' mocha o' yours all day long."

You had long since grown familiar with the well-known CEO, him having become one of your regulars. Handing him the desired mocha he craved, making sure to add extra chocolate dust on top - just the way he liked it.

His fingers brushed against your own on purpose, John's hands chilled from being outside. Before taking a long sip, sighing into the mug as if he'd been holding that very breath all day, making no move to go and sit down just yet.

"Christ, tha's the stuff," Soap hummed, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. Before looking back to where you stood behind the counter, his gaze softening. "Say, ah've been thinkin'... about how long we've been doing this song and dance."

You can't help but raise an eyebrow, pausing in your motions of wiping down the counter.

"Could just be meh, mind, but ah reckon tha' yeh like our wee chats," the ex-Sargent noted, his voice edged with hesitant flirtation. "Was wonderin' if yeh'd let meh take yeh out?"