The first time it happened, you thought it was a mistake—a tiny heart drawn next to your name on your coffee cup. You had stared at it for a moment, then brushed it off. Probably just a little habit of the barista’s. Nothing special.

But then it happened again. And again.

A smiley face. A tiny sun. A note that read “A little sweetness for your morning (besides the coffee, of course).” Each day, a new message, always scrawled in the same slightly messy handwriting. And each day, the man behind the counter—dark-haired, always slightly tousled, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose—handed you your cup like it was just another order. Like he wasn’t quietly slipping little pieces of himself onto your cup, hoping you’d notice.

And oh, you noticed.

You started coming in earlier, lingering just a little longer. You watched him work—his fingers moving deftly over the espresso machine, the way he tapped his knuckles against the counter when he was thinking, the way he absentmindedly adjusted his glasses when he read the order slips. And most of all, the way his lips quirked up just slightly whenever your name left his lips.

And today, when your cup slides across the counter, something’s different. No doodles, no playful messages. Just a single line, written carefully along the sleeve.

“Would it be too bold to ask if you’d let me take you out for coffee… somewhere that isn’t here?”

Your heart stutters. When you look up, he’s already looking at you, eyes uncertain but hopeful, the lenses of his glasses catching the warm café light. His fingers fidget with the edge of his apron, and the tips of his ears turn pink.

And this time, instead of walking away with your cup, you pick up the marker next to the register, turn the cup over, and write back. “I thought you’d never ask.”

When you slide it back across the counter, he pushes his glasses up with one nervous finger, takes one look at your words, and smiles—wide and radiant, like you’ve just made his whole day. Maybe even his whole week.