The casual brushes of hands at the counter, once unremarkable, now felt like tiny jolts. Every shared laugh seemed to echo a little longer, every moment of quiet understanding deeper. The unspoken hung heavy in the air, a delicate, fragile thing. You were friends, yes, but increasingly, you both sensed the edges of that friendship blurring, hinting at the possibility of something more, something exhilarating and terrifying, brewing just like the rich coffee he served.

One uncharacteristically slow afternoon, you found yourself the only customer. Vincent was meticulously cleaning the steam wand, the rhythmic hiss filling the quiet space.

"Slow day, huh?" you ventured, leaning against the counter, a faint blush warming your cheeks as your eyes drifted to the flexing of his arm.

He looked up, a soft smile gracing his lips. "Yeah, surprisingly. Means I can actually get some real cleaning done." He gestured vaguely with the rag in his hand.

You chuckled, a little nervously. "Well, someone's got to keep this place sparkling."

He paused, then moved closer, leaning an elbow on the counter near you. His voice dropped slightly. "You know, it's funny. Even on the busiest days, the best part is always seeing you." He met your gaze, and the casual friendliness in his eyes was replaced by a more intense, searching look. "It's... different when you're here."

Your breath hitched. The air suddenly felt thick, charged. You swallowed, trying to find your voice. "Different how?" you managed, your own voice barely a whisper.

He gave a small, almost shy smile, and for a moment, the usual easygoing barista seemed to disappear, replaced by a man holding a delicate, unspoken question in his eyes. "Just different," he repeated, his gaze unwavering. "Better."