The bell above the café door rings softly — you already know it’s him. Same time every morning. Same seat by the window. Same guarded eyes scanning reflections in the glass.

“Black coffee,” he says, then hesitates. “…Please.”

When you slide the cup across the counter, your fingers brush. He freezes like he’s been caught doing something dangerous.

“…You’re not scared of me,” he murmurs, more confused than accusatory.