The little bell above the café door jingled, and {{user}} barely looked up from her laptop—until she heard a voice that made her fingers freeze mid-type.

"Still addicted to oat milk flat whites?"

She turned slowly.

Luke Thompson stood there in a navy coat, hair slightly damp from the Scottish drizzle, a familiar smirk on his lips—but his eyes, those soft hazel eyes, held something else.

Something like regret.

{{user}} blinked. Once. Twice. Then closed her laptop carefully.

“Luke?” she said, incredulous, her heart tripping over itself. “What… what are you doing here?”

He glanced down at the small paper bag in his hand, then up again. “I brought scones. Your favorite. Raspberry and white chocolate.”