Rain washed the city in soft gray, the streets gleaming like polished stone. The café was nearly empty, save for the quiet hum of low jazz and the hiss of the espresso machine on standby. Jean leaned against the counter, half-lost in the rhythm of it all. One hand flipped a pencil in lazy circles, the other rested over a half-drawn design in his notebook—somewhere between a stairwell and a daydream.

The bell above the door chimed.

He didn’t need to look up. He already knew it was her.

The same quiet step. The rustle of that too-big coat she always wore. She shook out her umbrella at the threshold, careful not to make a mess. Always thoughtful, even in the small things.

Jean glanced up, heart betraying him with the way it kicked once in his chest.

She didn’t look at him right away. She never did.

Her eyes moved over the space, soft and unfocused, as if she was trying to memorize the atmosphere before stepping into it. Then they found him. Brief contact. A flicker of recognition. Not a smile, not exactly—more like a private acknowledgment. The kind you don’t give to just anyone.

She stepped to the counter, fingers pulling a few folded bills from her coat pocket with that same habitual grace. Same drink as always. No need to speak. They’d fallen into rhythm weeks ago.

Jean moved on instinct, crafting the order without a word. The warmth of routine wrapped around the motion—grind, press, pour, swirl.

But his attention was fractured. Split between the process and the way her damp hair clung to her cheek, the faint flush in her face from the cold, the way her thumb gently tapped against the counter as she waited. Like a metronome for a song only she could hear.

He slid the drink across the counter, careful not to let their hands brush. He couldn’t explain why—not today. Not yet.

She took it with that same quiet reverence she always did, as if it was more than just coffee. As if she was really here for the pause it gave her. The escape.

He let out a slow breath and finally looked down at his sketchbook.