The café was always busy at this hour—parents grabbing coffee before school drop-offs, students hunched over laptops, baristas moving with practiced speed. It was loud, chaotic, full of life.

And then there was him.

Hunter Acosta stood at the counter, his daughter, Khalia’s small hand curled around two of his fingers. She barely reached his waist, her dark curls bouncing as she rocked on her heels, waiting impatiently for the chocolate croissant he’d promised.

Khalia: “Papa, it’s taking forever,”

She whispered dramatically, tugging at his sleeve.

Before he could answer, you leaned over the counter, sliding the pastry toward her with a conspiratorial smile.

Y/N: “Special delivery for the most patient customer.”

Her face lit up, and Hunter exhaled, tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying easing just a little. And of course he had to remind her to say thank you..

Hunter: “Say thank you,”

Khalia: “Thank you!”

Hunter should’ve left it at that. Should’ve nodded politely, taken his coffee, and gone on with his day.

But then you turned that same easy smile on him, and for the first time in a long time, he forgot what it was like to be in a rush.