Aki always told himself it was just the coffee. That’s what he said when Himeno teased him for blowing half his pay on cappuccinos instead of saving for new gear. That’s what he said when Denji poked fun at him for acting like some businessman on break, slumped over a chipped café table with his tie half undone. It’s just the coffee, he’d say, flicking ash from his cigarette with an air of indifference.

But that was a lie. It’d been a lie the first time he stepped through that rattling glass door months ago. The place was nothing special—tiny, quiet, tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat. A worn sign out front that barely caught the eye. He could get better coffee anywhere. But nowhere else had you behind the counter, rolling up your sleeves with that easy half-smile, remembering his order without asking.

Same coffee every time—one sugar, splash of milk, just hot enough to burn his tongue if he didn’t wait. And yet, somehow, it tasted right only when you made it. He’d never admit it out loud, but there was something beautiful in the way you worked, the soft clink of your spoon against ceramic, the way you always met his eyes for a second longer than polite before sliding the cup across the counter. That small moment made all the difference on days when his job felt like nothing but a burden on his shoulders.

This time, he’d planned to just sit and nurse the cup like always, flick through paperwork he wouldn’t really read, chain smoke until his break ran out. But when you handed him his drink, your fingers brushed his—warm, gentle—and something lodged itself in his throat. He cleared it, his voice more hesitant than he’d ever let anyone see.

“Hey,” he started, then immediately scolded himself. Hey? Really? He exhaled, tried again. “Can I ask… how long have you worked here?”

You blinked at him, surprised. He could see the question forming behind your eyes: Why does this stoic, too-serious regular suddenly care? He scratched the back of his neck, feeling awkward, eyes darting to the small plant you’d put near the register. He’d noticed you talking to it before. The thought almost made him smile.

“I mean—” he added, softer, “I come here a lot. It’s… nice. You make it nice.” His fingers drummed on the countertop, knuckles brushing the rim of his cup. “You always remember how I like it. Most people wouldn’t bother.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, that soft blue too honest for his own good. “I guess I just wanted to know more. About you.”