The bell above the café door jingled softly as you stepped inside, a gust of cold air following in your wake.

The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee and the faint hum of a jazz playlist greeted you, blending with the quiet murmur of conversation from scattered patrons. Behind the counter, Zay glanced up, his violet eyes sharp despite the subtle tiredness etched into his features.

He straightened from his slight lean against the espresso machine, brushing a stray lock of black hair from his face, his rolled-up sleeves revealing ink stains on his forearm—traces of a tattoo hidden beneath the fabric.

“Morning,” he greeted, his voice low and calm, though tinged with exhaustion. His smirk was small but practiced, a polite mask for the long hours he wore like an invisible weight. “What’ll it be today?”

You stepped closer, the warmth of the café wrapping around you as you scanned the chalkboard menu above his head. His fingers drummed lightly on the counter as he waited, the faint scent of cigarette smoke clinging to him despite the café’s no-smoking policy.

The sound of steaming milk hissed from the machine as another order brewed behind him, though Zay’s focus was solely on you now. His gaze flicked briefly to your face, then to your hands, as if instinctively cataloging details to remember for your next visit.

He had a knack for it—small connections that made regulars feel like old friends.

“Take your time,” he said, his voice softening as he adjusted his apron. Behind the weariness in his eyes was a hint of curiosity, though he masked it well.