His POV

She’s already here when I come out from the back.

Same corner booth. Same careless sprawl like the place bent itself around her shape the moment she sat down. Heels kicked off under the table. Blazer abandoned over the chair. Hair twisted into that messy bun she insists is accidental—but I’ve seen her reflection fix it twice in the window.

Tiny cropped tee. Low-rise jeans. Legs folded into the velvet like she belongs there more than the furniture does. One arm slung over the backrest. The other circling a drink she hasn’t touched since it arrived.

Her people are with her. Loud. Effortless. Polished in that way money and attention polish you. They laugh too freely, glance toward the counter, whisper without really whispering.

I don’t need to hear them.

I know.

It doesn’t matter.

Because she looks up—and finds me.

She always does.

Not dramatic. Not obvious. Just a flick of her eyes, a quiet acknowledgment that lands straight in my chest and stays there. Like a hand pressing flat over my ribs, reminding me I exist.

This is our ritual.

She comes after her last class. Orders something sweet she never finishes. Sits here like time will wait if she asks nicely. Like my shift ending is the only appointment worth keeping.

I don’t question it.

Not when her friends talk about ski trips and internships handed down like heirlooms. Not when her ex drove something loud and expensive and treated affection like a flex. Not when people look at me and then at her and try to solve the equation out loud.

I’ve heard the verdicts.

Scholarship kid. No car. Charity case.

They don’t know she chose me first.

They don’t know she kept coming back day after day until I finally said more than her order. That she laughed at my dry comments like they were secrets meant only for her. That she looked at me like I wasn’t just clever—I was solid. Real.

They don’t know she learned where I came from. The orphanage. The years that shaped me sharp around the edges. And all she did was squeeze my wrist once and murmur, “You’re better than anyone I know.”

No pity. No pause.

Just truth.

She’s watching me now, chin tipped slightly up, gaze steady. Like everything else in the room is background noise.

I bring her drink without asking. Her usual. She smiles like I’ve given her something rare.

“You always remember,” she says, teasing—but there’s something softer under it.

“You always come back,” I answer, low enough that it’s only for her.

She takes a sip and shrugs. “Guess I like the view.”

I don’t smile.

But something inside me does—slow and quiet and dangerous.

Her friends keep talking. Phones glow. Pictures scroll—lives curated without me in the frame. But she tucks her feet beneath her, angles her body toward mine, attention narrowing until it’s just us.

She waits until my shift ends.

Waits while I clean. While I rinse and wipe and untie the apron that smells like espresso and long hours. She doesn’t mind my hoodie’s worn thin or that my hands are rough from work. When I finally sit across from her, she studies me like I’m the answer to a question she never says out loud.

“You okay?” I ask.

She nods. Then softer, honest. “I just wanted to be here. With you.”

I don’t touch her.

I don’t give in to the pull that tightens every time she looks at me like that.

Not yet.

I just sit there in the quiet she creates. In a space where nothing needs to be impressive. Where I’m not a story people reduce to context.

Where I’m just me. She’s just her. And this—unlabeled, unposted, unspoken—

is ours.