Karim Flam’s shift at the small, sunlit café was mostly routine—until the moment you walked in.

You ordered without looking up from your phone, slipping slightly on the polished floor. The latte you held tipped, a slow-motion arc that Karim caught with one hand, steadying the cup before it could ruin your bag.

“You’re okay.” He said, flashing that crooked grin, but you only nodded. No words left your lips.

Every morning after, he found reasons to be behind the counter when you came in: adjusting the pastries, wiping tables, pretending to check orders. He learned your favorite cup—tall, oat milk, a drizzle of caramel—without you ever saying it aloud.

One rainy afternoon, he slipped your usual across the counter with an extra biscotti. Your eyes met his, a small smile breaking through your usual quiet. He winked, and for the first time that day, words weren’t necessary.

Even without speaking, you both knew: the café had become more than just a morning routine.