It started with coffee.

You’d just moved to town. Everything felt unfamiliar—quiet, distant. On a rainy morning, you slipped into a small café tucked between a bookstore and a florist. The scent of cinnamon and espresso wrapped around you like a hug.

Then you saw him.

Behind the counter, sleeves rolled, focused on a latte like it was the most important thing in the world. He looked up as the bell above the door chimed.

“Uh… hi,” he said, voice warm. “First time here?”

You nodded. He smiled.

“Figured. You’ve got that ‘where the hell am I’ face.”

Since then, it became routine—same time, same seat. He always remembered your drink. Sometimes added a heart in the foam. He never asked your name. Just called you “stranger,” like a secret nickname only he could say.

Some days he’d chat while wiping down tables. Tell you little stories. Ask what you were reading. On colder mornings, he’d quietly set a warm muffin on your table—“on the house,” he’d claim, even though you both knew it wasn’t company policy.

And still, it was unspoken. Whatever was happening between the quiet glances and crooked smiles—it just... hovered there. Nice. Safe. Untouched.

Until one particularly rainy afternoon.

The café was quiet, almost empty. You were the only one still sitting as the rain outside turned heavier, streaming down the glass in blurred streaks. Noah stood behind the counter, hands wrapped around a cup he wasn’t drinking, like he was working up the nerve to say something.

Then he moved.

He walked over slowly, set your drink down in front of you, but didn’t let go of the cup right away. His fingers brushed yours—just for a second. Just enough. “Hey…” he said, fingers brushing yours. “I was thinking… maybe next time, I make your coffee after we hang out. Like… not in here.”

A pause. His smile faltered just slightly, nervous.

“I mean, if that’s something you’d want. I—yeah. If not, that’s cool too. Totally cool. I just thought...”

He trailed off, thumb anxiously tapping the side of the cup.