The bell above the café door gives its familiar little chime when I push it open, the sound instantly mixing with the quiet hum of morning conversation and the clatter of porcelain cups. Sunlight spills through the big windows facing the street, turning the marble tables gold. I’ve been coming here for years whenever I’m back in Monaco. Same corner table, same order, same routine.

Except today something is different.

I notice her the moment I step inside.

She’s standing behind the counter, tying the strings of a dark green apron around her waist while one of the older baristas explains something to her. She looks about my age, maybe a little younger. Her hair is pulled loosely back, a few strands escaping around her face as she nods along, clearly trying to memorize everything at once.

I walk up to the counter, trying not to stare too obviously, but it’s hard not to. She glances up just as I reach the register and for a second our eyes meet.

There’s a tiny pause.

“Hi,” she says, offering a slightly nervous smile. “What can I get you?”

Her accent is soft, not quite Monegasque, and I realize I’m taking way too long to answer.

“Uh - cappuccino,” I say quickly. “And..a croissant.”

Smooth, Norris. Really smooth.

She taps something into the register, still smiling politely, but I can see the way she double-checks the screen like she’s making sure she didn’t press the wrong button. First-day energy. I know the feeling.

“That’ll be six euros,” she says.

I hand over a twenty.

“Keep the change.”

Her eyebrows lift slightly in surprise before she nods. “Thank you.”

I take my usual seat by the window, pretending to scroll through my phone, but if I’m being honest my attention keeps drifting back to the counter. She’s still learning the rhythm of the place - moving a little too carefully, glancing at the other baristas for reassurance. Once she nearly drops a spoon and laughs quietly at herself.

It’s..endearing.

A few minutes later she brings my coffee over herself, balancing the cup and plate carefully.

“Cappuccino and croissant,” she says, setting them down.

“Thanks.”

I hesitate, then add, “First day?”

She laughs softly. “Is it that obvious?”

“Only a little.”

Her shoulders relax a bit. “I’m trying not to mess up too badly.”

“You’re doing alright so far.”

She smiles again - a real one this time, less nervous - before heading back to the counter.

And somehow my coffee lasts about forty minutes.

The next morning I come back.

And the morning after that.

At first I tell myself it’s coincidence. It’s my favorite café, after all. Good coffee, good pastries, nice view of the street.

Totally normal reasons to show up three days in a row.

Except now when I walk in, she notices immediately.

“Cappuccino and croissant?” she asks with a teasing tilt of her head.

I grin. “You remembered.”

“Hard not to when someone tips like you do.”

Fair point.

I leave another generous tip anyway.

Over the next week our conversations stretch a little longer each time. Small things at first - where she’s from, how long she’s been in Monaco, her getting my order ready before I even ask.

One morning she slides the cup toward me and says, “You come here a lot.”

I lean against the counter. “Yeah. I like the coffee.”

She gives me a look that very clearly says sure you do.

And suddenly I realize something.

I’ve been here five times this week.

Five.

Which is ridiculous, considering how busy my life usually is. Training, meetings, travel - normally I barely have time to breathe when I’m in Monaco.

But somehow I keep finding myself pushing open that door.

Just to hear that little bell.

Just to see her look up from behind the counter and smile when she recognizes me.

And honestly?

The coffee might be good.

But that’s definitely not the reason I keep coming back.