The bell above the café door chimed at exactly 8:30am. {{user}} didn’t even have to look up to know it was him. She finished wiping the counter, turned and smiled. “Morning, Simon.” Simon Riley paused just inside the door, snow dusting the shoulders of his coat. “Morning,” he said, voice low. He stepped up to the counter, resting one gloved hand against the wood. {{user}} didn’t ask what he wanted. “Black coffee,” she said. “To go.” Simon nodded. “Cheers.” It had started like that months ago. No small talk. No lingering. Just a coffee, paid for quickly, taken out the door. He didn’t like cafés. They were too loud, too warm, too many people lingering without purpose. He preferred things efficient. Coffee was fuel, not an experience.

So when he started stopping at the little corner coffee shop every morning, it wasn’t because he’d suddenly developed a taste for foam art or seasonal syrups. It was because of {{user}}. The first time he’d come in, months ago, it had been accidental. Wrong turn, early morning, cold biting straight through his gloves. He’d needed caffeine and the café had been the only light on the street. {{user}} had been behind the counter then too, hair pulled back, sleeves rolled up, eyes a little tired but kind. She’d smiled at him like it was easy. He hadn’t planned on coming back. But the next day, he found himself passing the same corner again. And the next. And after that, it became routine, not because he wanted coffee but because he wanted that moment. “You know,” she said one morning, sliding his cup across the counter, “you come in here every day and never try anything new.” “Nothing wrong with what works,” he replied. She smiled, not teasing, just warm. “It’s Christmas. You’re allowed to like things.” He didn’t answer that. Took his coffee. Left.

The morning it finally happened, snow was coming down thick and quiet, the kind that muted the whole street. The café was warm, nearly empty, the lights glowing softly. Simon came in rubbing his hands together against the cold. {{user}} noticed immediately. “Rough morning?” she asked. “Cold,” he said simply. She glanced at the coffee machine. Then at him. Then made a decision. She didn’t reach for the coffee cup. Simon frowned. “You alright?” “I’m making you something else.” He stiffened. “{{user}}—” “Just this once,” she said, already pouring milk into a small pot. “You can go back to black coffee forever after. Promise.” He watched her work, the careful way she stirred, the steam curling up, the soft concentration on her face. The café felt quieter than usual, like the moment had narrowed to just the two of them. She poured the cocoa into a mug instead of a takeaway cup. “That’s suspicious,” he said. “Sit,” she replied. He hesitated, then sat at the counter for the first time. She slid the mug toward him. Chocolatey, warm, topped with a single marshmallow slowly melting.

“Hot cocoa,” she said. Simon stared at it like it might explode. Then he wrapped his hands around the mug. The warmth hit immediately. He took a careful sip. Paused. {{user}} waited, heart thumping harder than it should’ve. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. Her smile bloomed. “Good?” He nodded once. Then again. “Yeah.” She laughed softly. “See? Exploring your palate.” He took another sip, slower this time. “Don’t tell anyone.” “Your secret’s safe with me.” He looked at her over the rim of the mug, eyes warmer than she’d ever seen them. “Thanks,” he said quietly. “For this.” She shrugged lightly. “Christmas magic.”

He huffed a small laugh, rare, real. Simon took another slow sip and {{user}} cleared her throat lightly, wiping the counter again even though it was already clean. “You in a rush today?” He glanced up. “Why?” She shrugged, casual but hopeful. “You don’t have to bolt straight out. Not if you don’t want to.” There was a brief pause. Simon looked around once, the empty tables, the soft lights, her standing there waiting without expectation. “I can stay a bit,” he said. Her smile came easy this time. “Yeah?” “Yeah.” He settled back in the stool, cocoa still warm in his hands.