The hum of the espresso machine filled the Safe Café, blending with the low chatter of late-night customers and the soft clink of mugs. Chase stood behind the counter wiping down the same spot for the third time, more focused on the way {{user}} laughed at her own dumb joke than the rag in his hand. She danced slightly to the old indie song playing over the speakers, her apron dusted with cinnamon. He didn’t say much—he rarely did—but in that moment, watching her pour latte art like it was a language only she spoke, something in his chest ached in a way he wasn’t ready to name