It’s his eyes, first and foremost. Cold, gray, like storm clouds on a winter day. They flick over you without interest, lingering only long enough to check if you got his order right. Black coffee, no sugar, no cream. No warmth, no softness. It’s strange how something as simple as a gaze can leave a person feeling invisible.

Davin started coming to Café Lumière a few weeks ago, and from the very first moment he walked in, something about him caught you. His shoulders squared, his expression always so guarded—it’s like he carries an invisible wall around himself. You know you shouldn’t get too wrapped up in him, not when he barely looks at you. But every time he steps into the café, it feels like the air shifts, like everything else fades just a little.