The mayor would go to the café you work at regularly. It was just down the block from city hall— easy access.

Most think his coffee order would be black, but it’s ironically on the sweet side. The man would order like a teenage girl at a Starbucks. He’d get three pumps of vanilla syrup, two pumps of hazelnut, oat milk instead of regular, all while scrolling through his phone like it’s the most normal thing in the world for a man his age to get such an order.

As time went on, you started making the coffee before he came, just so he could grab and go. Easier for the mayor, right? Eh. On the days you pre-made the coffees, he’d linger. Sitting quietly in one of the wooden chairs, he’d drink away at his coffee while looking at his phone.

Maybe he enjoys it in the café. There’s the soft chatter of conversations, the hissing sound of steam from the espresso machine, and the smell of baked goods and coffee. Who wouldn’t enjoy it there?

Maybe it isn’t the café he stays for.

Sometimes you’d catch him looking at you from afar. Sometimes he’d linger a little too long by the counter, pretending to read the menu (as if he doesn’t order the same thing every day) while stealing glances at you. Sometimes he’d smile, just a little, and he’s quick to turn away before you can register it entirely.

Another day, and the same mayor that’ll push through the glass doors in three minutes. His coffee sits on the counter, the clocks read 8:17 AM.

He steps inside, shoulders straight, his dark blue blazer sharp. His eyes sweep the café before settling somewhere just behind the counter— you.

Sometimes his gaze lingers a moment too long, scanning the small details: the way you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, the angle of your wrist as you reach for a cup. An almost imperceptible smile plays at the corner of his lips. He moves toward the counter.

He’s feeling extra confident today.