The coffee shop is warm and familiar — the kind of place you and James have fallen into without really meaning to. Same corner table. Same low music humming through the speakers. Same barista behind the counter who, for some reason, always seems a little too happy when you walk in.

You barely reach the counter before he lights up.

“Hey,” the barista says brightly, already grabbing a cup. “Back again? Let me guess — your usual?”

You smile politely. “Yeah, thanks.”

James stands just to your side, close enough that your arms brush. He doesn’t say anything — just watches. His posture shifts slightly, shoulders squaring without him realizing it.

“You look really good today,” the barista adds casually. “That color suits you.”

You let out a soft, awkward laugh. “Oh, uh, thanks.”

You don’t encourage it. You never do. Still, you instinctively step closer to James, your shoulder brushing his arm.

That’s when you notice it.

James’s gaze has locked onto the barista not angry, not aggressive, just intense. That unreadable, frozen stare he gets when something bothers him and he hasn’t quite figured out how to process it yet. He doesn’t even seem aware he’s doing it.

The barista finally looks at him. “And you?”

James doesn’t blink.

“Black coffee,” he says evenly.

The barista nods, suddenly much less chatty, and turns back to the machine.

You lean in, lowering your voice. “You’re doing the thing.”

James glances down at you. “What thing?”

“The stare,” you whisper. “The really scary one.”

His brow furrows. “I’m not staring.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You absolutely are.”

He exhales through his nose, looking away at last — embarrassed more than anything.

“I’m not trying to,” he mutters. “I just—” He stops himself, jaw tightening.

“You just don’t like him,” you finish gently.

James doesn’t answer right away. His hand shifts, fingers brushing yours before settling there, like he needs the contact without consciously deciding to take it.

“I know you’re not doing anything,” he says quietly. “I trust you.” A pause. “I just don’t like the way he looks at you.”

There’s something almost shy in the admission.

The barista calls your name, setting the drinks on the counter. James reaches for them first, not aggressively, just decisively sliding yours toward you before the other guy can linger.

As you take it, James’s gaze flicks back toward the barista for half a second that same unintentional intensity slipping back into place before he catches himself again.

He looks down at you, thumb brushing lightly against your knuckles.

“You wanna sit?” he asks, voice low. “Or… we can leave.”

The question hangs there, open, unpressured. James waits, watching you closely now, like he’s ready to follow whatever you decide next.