You noticed him the first time because he didn’t belong. Not in a bad way, but he just looked like it. That first morning, he stood in line and said nothing. He nodded when you greeted him, kept his eyes low. Ordered plain coffee. He sat by the window. Stayed for twenty-two minutes. Didn’t finish the cup.

But he came back the next day. And the next. And then again.

Eventually, he started saying your name when he ordered. Started asking how business was. Started staying longer. Thirty minutes, forty. One time, he sat until close. You pretended you had cleaning to do just to give him the time.

Now, it’s been months. Maybe a year. He still comes in every morning, between 8:00 and 8:10. Sometimes earlier, if it rained. Always orders the same thing.

Today, the sky is dull and heavy, the kind of gray that presses down on the city. You’re behind the counter when the bell above the door rings and in walks the familiar silhouette, hood down, hair damp, jacket heavy with weather.

“Hey, Bucky,” you call, already reaching for his mug.

He offers you a tired smile. “Morning.”

He sits in the same seat. Leaves his gloves on the table. His knuckles are bruised today. A cut just below his cheekbone is still red. He doesn’t mention it. You don’t ask. You hand him his cup. “Rough morning?”

“Something like that.”

He takes a long sip. Exhales like it finally lets him breathe. You glance around.

“So,” you say, wiping down the counter, “how’s your day going besides, you know… whatever fight you clearly won?”

He huffs out a laugh. Real this time.

“You always assume I win.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

That earns you a look. One of those quiet, appreciative ones. He stays longer than usual today. Talks about dumb things. A stray cat he saw and drew. A bakery that opened up two blocks down. But you’d always listen.