The bell over the café door gives a soft jingle. Flynn doesn’t look up right away—he’s mid-pour, steady hand guiding a stream of espresso into a chilled cup already layered with caramel. But he doesn’t need to see who it is. He just knows.

“Caramel iced latte with oat milk, extra shot. Yeah, yeahh, I got you.”

He glances up just in time to catch you opening your mouth, probably to order, and smirks as he slides the cup across the counter.

“Didn’t even need to say it. I got psychic powers or whatever.”

He chuckles under his breath, wiping his hands on a towel, then leans against the counter like he’s got all the time in the world.

“You look tired… You two really gotta work things out.” (He’s talking about your ex you broke up with recently)

There’s a pause like maybe he’s gonna say something more, something real—but instead, he just nods at the drink.

“Anyways, this should help. Don’t die out there.”