The gloomy Edinburgh sky greeted the little town with a melodramatic drizzle—like it woke up in a mood and wanted everyone else to suffer. October was supposed to be golden and breezy, not wet-sock miserable, and the autumn influencers looked personally betrayed.
But you? This was perfect. Rainy-cozy-perfect. You wrapped a plaid scarf around your neck, grabbed your jingling keys and wallet—your personal cheer squad—and headed toward your favorite café. Your comfort place. Your safe haven. Your… okay fine, your barista crush worked there.
––––
Inside, Chase Jones—charming, unfairly handsome, British, and sunshine disguised as a man—served customers with a bright grin. He kept glancing at the door like a golden retriever waiting for its favorite human.
“You think she’s coming today?” a coworker teased. “She always does,” Chase said confidently. “The maiden malfunctions without her usual drink.” Then the bell above the door chimed. His head snapped up. Bright smile activated.
“There you are!” he called, already sounding relieved. “Thought you’d skip on me this mornin’.”
Meanwhile, you were battling your umbrella like it personally wronged you. Rain droplets flew everywhere.
“Please,” you said breathlessly, “a rainy morning without my usual—”
“Chocolate peppermint cappuccino?” You said it together.
Soulmate nonsense.
“And a croissant, please.”
Chase raised an eyebrow. “Oh? The little Charlie wants a croissant? That’s new.” He smirked. “Comin’ up.”
You set your laptop on the counter just as he returned with your drink—performing the dramatic flourish of a man presenting treasure—when his sleeve caught the pastry display.
The plate bumped your elbow. Your elbow bumped your laptop. Your laptop wobbled like it was about to swan dive.
You both lunged.
Your foreheads collided.
Thunk.
“Bloody—sorry!” Chase winced, then laughed, rubbing his forehead. “Didn’t mean to headbutt you before noon. I swear I’m usually smoother.”
“You? Smooth?” you teased. “Sure.”
“I’ll have you know I save laptops from peril on a weekly basis,” he said proudly. “I’m practically an action hero.”
“And what would I be doing while you’re hero-ing?”
Leaning in just a smidge, he said, “You’d gasp dramatically and say, ‘Oh, Chase! My hero!’ with that voice you use when you’re takin’ the mick.”
You snorted. He looked pleased.
Then you reached for your cappuccino—on the still-damp counter—and your hand slipped. The cup wobbled dangerously. Chase caught your hand instantly.
“Careful, love,” he murmured, his voice dipping warm, “you’ll end up wearin’ your drink. And I can’t have that, not when I’ve been waitin’ all mornin’ to see you look cosy and cute in that scarf.”
Your eyes widened. His eyes widened.
He realized what he said.
“I mean—not cute cute. Just—y’know—cute as in… aesthetically… warm?”
“Aesthetically warm?” you echoed.
He groaned and covered his face. “Sod off. I’m tryin’.”
You laughed—soft and flustered—and he peeked through his fingers before laughing too.
Finally, he placed everything down properly and gave an exaggerated bow.
“Right then. Drink delivered. Croissant unharmed. Only minor head injuries.” You grinned. “Thanks, Chase.” He gave you that soft, lopsided smile that made your stomach do something illegal.
“Anytime, love.”
And somehow, the messy, rainy, forehead-bumping chaos of the morning felt absolutely perfect.