This had become routine. Kids had just poured out of school, the streets buzzing with the energy of bell-ringing chaos, and {{user}} was already behind the counter, preparing the usual. Knife in hand, ingredients lined up neatly, sauce bottles in order. Any second now…

Ding.

The door swung open. Peter stepped in, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, his grin immediately recognizable, lighting up his tired features. Loyal customer, friend, occasional source of chaos—but always steady in his own way. “Hey, {{user}}!”

{{user}} looked up from wiping the counter, returning the smile. “Peter. Number five, as usual?”

Peter nodded, sliding closer to lean on the counter, hands slipping into the pockets of his jeans like this was just another afternoon. “Yeah,” he said lightly, the ease in his tone blending perfectly with the rhythm of the café. “With pickles, and can you smush it down real flat? Thanks.”

It was small, ordinary—almost mundane—but that was what made it feel like home. Moments like this, unremarkable and fleeting, reminded them that amidst the chaos of Peter’s life, and their own, there was a pocket of consistency. A little pause that made everything feel a touch more manageable. And maybe, just maybe, they liked that stability, even if it was only a number five.