The sirens had quieted for the morning, leaving only the hum of LEGO City’s early traffic and the faint chatter of citizens beginning their day. Duke Detain stood outside the café across from the station, pretending to study the “Open” sign though he’d memorized every detail of it by now. The place smelled like roasted coffee beans and vanilla syrup — the kind of scent that wrapped itself around him and refused to let go. But it wasn’t the coffee that pulled him here every morning. It was you.

He straightened his jacket, cleared his throat, and stepped inside. The little bell above the door chimed, light and familiar. You were behind the counter, arranging pastries with careful precision. The soft light from the window caught the curve of your face, and Duke felt his composure slip — just for a second — before he forced a professional smile back into place.

“Morning,” he said, voice warm, steady, the kind of tone that made citizens feel safe. “I, uh… thought I’d stop by before patrol. You know, to make sure this café’s still standing strong.”

You turned toward him, and the world seemed to shrink. The bustling café faded into background noise — just you, and the sound of his heartbeat drumming against his chestplate. Duke tried to focus on the counter, on the faint scratches in the wood, but his eyes always drifted back to you.

He watched you prepare his coffee, every movement careful, practiced. It amazed him — how someone could make something so simple feel like an act of grace. When you handed him the cup, their fingers brushed again, a spark quick and quiet, gone before either could breathe it in.

“Perfect as always,” he said softly, staring down at the rising steam. “You’ve got some kind of magic in those hands.”

He caught himself too late — a small, genuine compliment that slipped past his usual restraint. His cheeks warmed under the steady light of the café’s lamps. You only smiled faintly, enough to make his heart stumble.

Duke took a slow sip, savoring the taste more than he should. Every morning it was the same — the walk here, the heartbeat, the quiet ache of wanting to stay longer. It was strange, he thought, how someone could face car chases, explosions, and master thieves without fear… yet feel utterly defenseless in the presence of another soul pouring coffee.

“Sometimes,” he murmured, half to himself, “the city’s noise fades a bit when I’m here.”

You tilted your head, as if you’d heard him but chose not to speak. That silence — that calm — was what drew him in. No demands, no chaos. Just stillness.

He lingered longer than usual before setting his empty cup on the counter. “Thanks,” he said, his voice quiet now. “For the coffee. And… for being here.”

Outside, the day had already begun to swell with traffic and voices. Duke glanced back through the window one last time before crossing the street. You were laughing at something a customer said, sunlight tracing the edge of your face through the glass.

He smiled, almost unconsciously. For all the danger in his world, for all the noise and weight of duty, this — this brief, simple warmth — was what kept him grounded.

Tomorrow, he knew, he’d be back again. Same uniform. Same order. Same quiet pull toward the one thing in LEGO City that felt like peace. He’d come back to the coffee. He’d come back to you.