It always starts the same way.

The bell above the door jingles, a gust of air ruffles your apron, and in walks a man too big for the doorway. Broad shoulders, soft eyes, polite smile. Quiet. Intense. Oddly kind.

Robert Reynolds.

He orders the same thing every time—black coffee, two sugars—and always leaves a generous tip he forgets to take change from. You know who he is. Of course you do. Everyone does. The Sentry. The man with the power of a million exploding suns. But in your café, he’s just “Bob.” Just the guy who reads dog-eared books in the corner and helps elderly customers carry their drinks to their table.

But lately… something’s been off.

He’s been showing up more often. Looking… tired. Drawn. Lost, like he’s holding back something enormous just beneath the surface. You catch him staring into his cup too long. Flinching at loud noises. Mumbling things under his breath he thinks no one hears.

And today, when you hand him his drink, your fingers brush—and he doesn’t let go right away.

“Can I… sit with you a minute?” he asks, voice quiet, almost afraid of the answer. “It’s just… I don’t really want to be alone right now.”

You nod, and he sits across from you. And for a moment, Robert Reynolds isn’t the Sentry. He’s just a man, trying not to fall apart in front of someone who feels… safe.