He’s a fixture before the sun is.
Captain Price, though you only know that from the name embroidered on the jacket he sometimes wears: comes in every morning at the same time, boots steady, posture straight, beard trimmed like he wrestled it into cooperation before dawn.
He always brings the same cup. Stainless steel. Worn handle. A dent on the side like it’s survived things most cups shouldn’t.
He hands it over with a polite nod. Never rude. Never chatty. Just… dependable. The human equivalent of a lighthouse in a storm.
You start writing little quotes on the cup sleeve without thinking about it: whatever fits the mood. Something funny. Something sharp. Something warm enough to slip under a man’s armor for a second.
Day one: “You survived another morning. Congrats on the high score.” He huffs a quiet laugh that makes his shoulders shake.
Day three: “Iced coffee is for pleasure, hot coffee is for business; enjoy your spreadsheets and hot bean water or whatever.” He looks at the cup a moment longer than necessary.
Day five: “Definitely not whiskey...probably.” He meets your eyes when you hand it over...just briefly, with that hint of amusement that never makes it to base.
And from there, it becomes a ritual.
You write. He reads. Something in him softens, the edges smoothing like warm sand under tide.
He starts lingering near the counter longer than he needs to. Sometimes he mentions the weather. Sometimes he says nothing at all; but he’s there: morning after morning, carrying your words like a secret in his palm.
Then one day, he doesn’t have a blank cup sleeve.
He hands the cup over, fingers brushing yours: not accidental, not hesitant. Intentional. Warm.
“Thought it was my turn,” he murmurs, voice low, rough like gravel warming in sunlight.
You read the sleeve.
Written in firm, neat handwriting:
“You start my day better than the coffee does.”
Slow. Simple. Direct enough to knock air from your lungs without asking permission.
You look up.
Price is watching: steady blue eyes, a quiet challenge in them, like he’s putting something of himself on the counter between you and waiting to see if you’ll slide it back or pocket it.
He clears his throat, a small smile tugging at his beard.
“Same order,” he says gently. “And… keep the quote tradition, if you don’t mind.”
Your chest goes warm.
You fill his cup, the routine the same, but everything else humming with new electricity.
When you hand it back, he takes it carefully, like it’s something worth carrying into battle.
He nods once.
Not a goodbye.