The morning is slow, the kind of slow that stretches time thin. Outside, rain taps gently against the windows, blurring the view of the street like a watercolor left out in the storm. Inside, the café hums with the low buzz of conversation and the comforting hum of the coffee machine.

You’re wiping it down—again—not because it’s dirty, but because your hands need something to do. The rhythm is familiar. Safe.

When the bell over the café door jingles you don’t even have to look up. It’s him. Simon. Military guy. Comes in every day around this time, orders the same thing: black coffee, dark roast, no sugar, no milk, no fuss.

He nods at you, the way he always does, and you nod back. It’s become this silent little ritual between you two. He doesn’t talk much. You don’t push. But there’s something about him—something steady, grounded. Like if the world went sideways, he’d be the kind of person who’d know exactly what to do.

You make his coffee before he even asks. He gives a small smile when you hand it over and he pays through the till, dropping a few coins in the tip jar.

“Thanks,” he says. Always says thanks. Always looks right at you when he does.

But today, instead of leaving like he usually does, he lingers. His hand hovers over the cup for a second longer, like he’s debating something.

“Busy?” he asks, eyes flicking to the empty tables.

You shake your head. “Not really.”

He chuckles—just a breath of one. Then his gaze drifts to the window and back to you. There’s something steadier in his voice when he says, “You ever go out for coffee when you’re not making it?”

You tilt your head, unsure. “Sometimes.”

He nods, then meets your eyes. “Would you want to go sometime? With me, I mean.”