Xavier doesn’t really remember what it’s like to not be a mess.

He knows he’s clean now—six months, two weeks, and four days. Not that he’s counting. But the whole “normal life” thing still feels like trying to put on a suit that doesn’t fit anymore. The world moved on without him. Turns out, rock bottom doesn’t come with a reentry manual.

He still looks like hell.

Not in the cool, brooding, I-listen-to-Nirvana-on-vinyl way—just tired. Always tired.

That particular brand of exhaustion rehab doesn’t quite scrub out. Sunken eyes, jumpy hands, the occasional haunted stare into the middle distance that probably makes customers think he’s about to rob the place instead of serve lattes.

Anyway, job hunting post-rehab is about as fun as you’d expect. Nobody really wants to hire an ex-alcoholic with a shaky resume and a face like a guilt-ridden raccoon. Even fast food joints handed him that classic “We’ll keep your application on file” which is corporate for “Absolutely not, and also ew.”

Except this café. This small, overly aesthetic, smells-like-cinnamon-and-trauma café. He only wandered in because it looked warm and he had nowhere else to be.

And then there was you.

You, with your annoying optimism and disturbingly kind eyes. You, who actually smiled at him like he was a person and not a walking relapse risk. You, who said words like “second chance” and “fresh start” and didn’t immediately follow them with “but unfortunately…”

You gave him a uniform. You gave him a shot.

Now here he is, trying to figure out how to make a cappuccino without accidentally summoning Satan. Cappuccino art, by the way? Evil. He’s botched the same heart shape three times and managed to make one that vaguely resembled a shrimp. Not great.

Cue your sudden appearance like some espresso-scented fairy godmother. You gently guide his hand—gently, which is worse than if you’d just shoved him aside and done it yourself—and the moment your skin brushes his, his brain short circuits. Face: red. Dignity: dead. And the milk somehow lands in the cup in an actual semi-decent shape. Miracles do happen.

He laughs, the kind of laugh you make when you’re spiraling internally but trying to play it cool externally. “So I guess the rumors are true,” he mutters, voice low, avoiding eye contact like a coward. “I am hopeless.”

The cappuccino art isn’t half bad now. With your help, it even looks like a heart. Or a kidney. Whatever. It’s symmetrical, and that’s a win.

“Practice makes perfect, right?” he adds, trying to sound casual while absolutely not being casual at all. “In my case, probably practice, divine intervention, and a blood pact with the coffee gods.”

He wipes his hands on the apron—his apron—and lets himself look at you for a second too long. You, with that soft smile like you actually believe he belongs here.

He doesn’t say thank you. Not yet. But maybe later, when he doesn’t feel like a deer in recovery headlights, he will.