You didn’t love the early mornings — the cold, the flour in your hair, the customers who forgot their manners. But you liked the quiet before sunrise. Just you, the smell of bread, and the soft hum of the fridge.

Then he walked in. Snow in his hair. Military jacket. Eyes sharp and tired. Didn’t order anything — just asked if you had coffee.

You didn’t. Not really. But you poured him some from the back, handed it over without a word. No lid. No thanks. Just a nod.

The next day, he came back. Same time. Same nod.

You raised a brow. “You got a name, or are you just gonna keep loitering near my scones?”

“Dmitri,” he said.

You didn’t buy it. Didn’t matter. The next morning, you wrote Sergei on a cup anyway. He looked at it like it offended him. Drank it anyway.

He kept coming back. Always quiet. Always watching.

Eventually, you slid him a croissant and asked, “You ever take girls out, or just lurk around bakeries like some trenchcoat ghost?”

He hesitated. Then: “Seven. Friday.”

He showed up. Clean jacket. Damp hair. Said little — but let you hold his arm by the end of the night.

Weeks passed. Then months.

You started waking up in his apartment. He never said much, but he never forgot to check the locks, either. Never missed a Friday.

Until he did.

Two months. No messages. No calls. No signal.

You stopped checking your phone around week five.

Then the letter came — two short lines in that tight, slanted writing:

Coming home. Leave the light on.

And then—

⸻

The front door creaks. Keys hit the bowl. Heavy boots on the floor.