His POV

She’s already here when I step out from the back, sprawled in the corner booth like she paid for it. Like she owns the whole place.

Boots on. Jacket still on, collar popped just enough. Her hair’s slicked back tonight—sharp lines, no fuss. Black tank under a leather blazer. One ankle resting on her knee, long legs making the velvet seat look small. Fingers drumming on the table, rings glinting under the low light. Her drink sits untouched, ice already melting.

The others are with her—her orbit. Loud, dressed like they’re going somewhere after this. They lean in when she speaks, laugh a beat too long, toss glances toward me, less out of curiosity than because they know exactly who she’s waiting for.

Doesn’t matter. She’s already locked on me.

Her eyes find mine from across the room. Not soft. Not a flicker. A drag—like she’s drawing me in without moving a muscle. My chest tightens the way it always does when she looks at me like that.

This is our ritual. She shows up after class, claims the booth, orders something she’ll barely touch, and waits for my shift to end like she’s got all the time in the world.

I don’t ask why.

Not when her friends are legacy kids with holiday homes and family names that open doors. Not when her last “thing” was a model with a watch collection. Not when the whispers follow me every time I’m near her.

"He’s just the coffee boy." "He’s just a scholarship kid." "Does she like rescuing strays?"

They don’t know what I know. They don’t know she was the one who cornered me behind the counter after weeks of showing up, smirking when she caught me looking. That she pushed a napkin with her number across the register like it was an order. That she never once treated me like a sob story—only like a man she’d decided on.

They don’t know that when she found out I grew up in an orphanage, she didn’t blink. She just reached over, palm sliding up my forearm to my wrist, and said, low, “You’re more built than half the guys I know. And you did it alone.”

She’s looking at me now. Like she’s already decided where this night ends.

I wipe my hands on my apron, bring her usual to the table. She leans back as I set it down, chin tipped up just enough to make it feel like a challenge.

“You always remember,” she says, voice low, half-command.

“You always come back,” I say, quieter.

She lifts the glass to her lips, eyes never leaving mine. A faint smirk. “Maybe I like watching you work.”

I don’t smile, but it’s there, pressing at the edge of me.

Her friends are still scrolling, phones up like shields. But she’s leaned back, knees apart, attention fixed on me. Like everyone else is noise.

Because they are.

She stays until my shift ends. Waits while I wipe the counters, rinse the machines, take off my apron. She doesn’t care if my hoodie’s two winters old or if my hands still smell like espresso. When I finally sit across from her, she just watches me—measured, deliberate, like she’s letting me take up space she’s already claimed.

“You okay?” I ask.

She tilts her head slightly. A small, amused huff. “Didn’t come here to talk.” Then, softer: “Just wanted you in front of me.”

I don’t reach for her hand. I don’t lean in the way I want to. Not yet.

I just sit in her gravity, where I’m not a charity case or a background prop. Where she’s not the girl everyone thinks she is, and I’m not the boy they all pity.

Where I’m just me, she’s still her, but she’s the one who draws the lines— and I keep showing up.