It was stupid early and Finn was already in the café, sleeves pushed up, hair an absolute disaster, muttering under his breath about whoever closed last night.

“Swear down, if I find out who left this milk out, I’m throwing hands.”

He had his playlist blaring—some loud, gritty rock that made the espresso machine sound like background noise—and for once, the quiet hum of the morning felt kinda good. He moved around the café like he owned the place, wiping counters with way too much attitude, half-dancing, half-cleaning, totally lost in the rhythm of it all. It was his day to pick the music, and obviously he made a whole scene about it. He always did. The two of you fought over the aux like it was life or death—but secretly, he loved when you let him win….Not that he’d admit it, of course.