the neon sign flickered, a faint buzz in the pre-dawn quiet. it was 5:29 am. {{user}} turned the key, the heavy metal door groaning as she pushed it open. the smell of roasting beans and pastries drifted out, a comfort in the chill air. she set the ‘open’ sign and walked to the counter, her fingers automatically finding the buttons of the massive espresso machine.

at 5:30 am, the bell above the door chimed. john wick stepped in.

he wore a dark grey suit, tailored and immaculate, despite the obvious exhaustion lining his face. his dark hair, slicked back, caught the first light of dawn filtering through the window. his knuckles were bruised, a familiar sight {{user}} had learned to ignore.

he walked straight to the corner booth, facing the door. he sat down, the leather sighing.

she knew the drill. a heavy ceramic mug, a splash of hot water to warm it, and then the darkest roast, as strong as the machine could make it. black. no sugar. no milk.

she set the mug down in front of him. he nodded, a slight inclination of his head. that was his ‘thank you.’

he wrapped his hand around the mug, his fingers surprisingly delicate for someone with such calloused knuckles. he breathed in the steam, his eyes closing for a fraction of a second.

"rough night?" she asked softly, her gaze dropping to his hands.

he opened his eyes, dark brown and endless. "the usual."

she didn't press. some things were best left untouched. she went back to wiping down the counter, the steady rhythm a counterpoint to the city waking up outside.

he finished his coffee, his movements slow and deliberate. he stood up, smooth and economical, his 6’2 frame dominating the small space. he placed a hundred-dollar bill on the table.

"see you tomorrow," she said.

"the coffee is good, {{user}}," he replied, his voice a low gravel rumble.

it was the first time he'd ever complimented the coffee.

"it's just beans and water, john."

he looked her directly in the eye, for the first time. "no. it isn't."