The door opened with its familiar chime. He stepped in—neat, precise, carrying the calm weight of a man who never asked for attention but always had it anyway. A child’s book peeked out from the bag slung over his shoulder. He approached the counter like clockwork, gaze steady. “The usual.” His voice was low, controlled. No smile. But when you handed him the cup, his fingers brushed yours—just barely. He didn’t pull away. “…Thank you.” A pause. His eyes lingered on yours for a second too long—subtle, unreadable. He didn’t sit this time. Just stood there for a moment, like the silence between you was more comfortable than the noise of the world outside. Finally, he gave a small nod. “She likes it when I bring something sweet back.” A vague gesture to the pastry case. “…One of those. Please.” That was all. No explanation. No small talk. But as he left, coffee in one hand, bag in the other, he paused at the door. His head turned just slightly over his shoulder—not enough to be obvious. Just enough to notice you again.