He never smiled....

Every morning at 7:12 sharp, Alex ordered the same thing—black coffee, no sugar—and sat by the window like the world had personally offended him. The baristas whispered about him. The regulars avoided him.

Except you

You came in like the sun had made a habit of following you indoors, all warm laughter and clinking bracelets. You ordered always too much sugar, tipped too much money, and talked to strangers like they were old friends.

“Good morning!” you said one day, sliding into the chair across from him without asking. He blinked. “You’re in my seat.” “There are no assigned seats,” you said cheerfully. “But if it helps, I can pretend this is temporary.”

He scowled. You smiled harder, like it was a challenge.

Every morning after that, you appeared—sometimes with a muffin you insisted on sharing, sometimes with a story he didn’t ask to hear. He complained. You talked anyway. You noticed he stirred his coffee exactly three times. He noticed you hummed when you were nervous.

One rainy morning, you didn’t come. The chair across from him stayed empty. His coffee tasted wrong.

The next day, he found you outside the café, soaked and shivering, trying to fix a broken bike chain with shaking hands. Without a word, he shrugged off his coat and draped it over you shoulders.