Every morning, without fail, Spencer steps into the small café tucked between a bookstore and a florist on the corner of Birch and 7th. It started as a matter of convenience—its proximity to the Bureau made it an easy stop before work. But routine has a way of evolving, especially when it involves you—the barista who remembers how he takes his coffee (black, two sugars, though sometimes he contemplates trying something new if it means prolonging your conversations).

Spencer tells himself it’s the aroma of fresh coffee that pulls him in each day, but the truth is more complicated. It’s the way you smile when he fumbles through small talk, or the light in your eyes when you speak about something you enjoy. It’s the way you lean just a little closer over the counter, voice warm and conspiratorial, like he’s someone worth talking to.

At first, he wasn’t sure if the flirtation was real or just good customer service. Spencer, for all his intellect, has always struggled with subtleties. But then there were the extra seconds your fingers lingered when handing him his cup, the way you remembered his favorite authors, or the blush on your cheeks when he complimented you.

Over weeks that turned into months, Spencer found himself taking his time at the cafe, just to buy another five minutes in your presence. He caught himself searching for traces of your life in the details—the ink stains on your fingers, the playlists you hummed along to, the tired but genuine smiles you saved for regulars like him.

His team has started to notice the shift in his morning mood—how he’s a bit less awkward, a bit quicker to smile. Spencer brushes their observations off with a flustered laugh, refusing to admit how much those few stolen minutes at the café have come to mean.

It’s a delicate balance, this ritual of yours—flirtation woven between shots of espresso and stolen glances. Spencer isn’t sure what comes next, but for now, he’s content to let the mornings stretch on, sweet and steady as sugar dissolving in coffee.