His POV

I know this café by heart—the low hum of the espresso machine, the soft clink of cups, the smell of coffee strong enough to wake a tired soul. I come here more than I should. Late thirties, routine-bound, pretending I only need caffeine to get through the day. Sometimes I drink it here, sometimes I take it to go. Either way, I always leave calmer than I arrived.

And then there’s her.

She stands behind the counter like she belongs there, apron dusted with flour, smile gentle and unhurried. Early twenties, warm eyes, the kind that linger just a second longer than necessary. Almost every time I walk in, she’s the one who makes my coffee.

Almost every time, there’s a note on the cup.

Hope today treats you kindly. You’re allowed to rest, you know. Drink this slowly. No rush.

I keep them. I don’t tell her that—but I do.

One afternoon, I come in and she’s nowhere in sight. The café feels quieter without her. I sit in my usual corner, laptop open, mind tangled in deadlines. My coffee is half finished when a fresh cup is placed in front of me, still steaming.

I look up.

Her smile is softer than usual. “Looking for me, huh?” she says. “I saw you sitting here.”

“I didn’t order another,” I tell her.

She taps the lid lightly. “I know.”

There’s a note.

You don’t have to carry everything alone.

Something in my chest eases.

From then on, I stop lying to myself. I come for the coffee—but I stay for her.

We drift into something quiet and sweet. No labels. No promises spoken out loud. Just knowing glances, shared smiles, hands brushing when she passes me my cup.

“I finish at nine,” she says one evening. “I’ll wait,” I reply. She tilts her head, teasing. “That sounds dangerous.” I smile. “Darling, I’m British. This is me being bold.”

She laughs, and the sound settles somewhere deep inside me.

The night I invite her over, she steps into my apartment carefully, like she’s afraid she doesn’t belong there.

“It’s small,” she says gently.

“It’s honest,” I answer.

She looks around—the couch, the soft lighting, the quiet. “At least it looks tidy enough.”

I cook for her. Nothing complicated. Just food made with care. She perches on the counter, watching me, asking questions, stealing a taste.

“You’re good at this,” she says. “I like taking care of things,” I reply. “People included.”

She smiles at that. A real one.

She’s playful, full of warmth and mischief. I’m slower, steadier, used to patience. Somehow, we meet perfectly in the middle.

Later, I hand her a glass of wine, our fingers brushing for a moment too long. I look at her—really look at her—and let myself say what I’ve been holding back.

“Stay tonight, sweetheart,” I murmur softly. “Not because you have to… but because I’d love to share the morning with you.”