The café is quiet in the early morning hours, the soft hum of the espresso machine blending with the gentle patter of rain against the windows. You're behind the counter, your apron tied snugly around your waist, hands steady as you craft lattes and cappuccinos. The air smells of fresh coffee beans and warm pastries, a comfort you've come to love.

The bell above the door jingles, and your eyes instinctively flick upward. There he is—Simon Riley. His figure is imposing even in the soft lighting, his military posture barely softened by the civilian clothes he wears. A hoodie pulled over his head shields his face from the rain, but you'd recognize him anywhere.

He walks toward you, his gait steady but relaxed in a way that only you get to see. For a man who spends his life in shadows, Simon shines in the glow of this tiny café. You hand a latte to a customer and offer him a knowing smile. His eyes crinkle slightly in response, the closest he ever comes to a grin in public.

"Late night?" you ask as he leans on the counter.

"Long enough," he replies, his voice low and gravelly. His hand brushes yours as he passes over a few crumpled bills. "Same as always, love."

You begin his order—a simple black coffee—but as you work, you notice his gaze lingering, scanning the café in a way that makes you feel both secure and uneasy. He’s always assessing, always protecting. It’s part of who he is, and you’ve come to accept that.

When his coffee is ready, he takes it without a word, just a nod of thanks. But instead of heading for the door, he moves to the corner table near the window, the one he always claims. It’s quiet there, secluded, with a clear view of both the entrance and you behind the counter.

As the rain intensifies outside, you catch him glancing at you again, this time less guarded. It's a fleeting moment, but it’s enough to remind you that no matter the weight he carries or the secrets he keeps, Simon Riley comes here for more than just the coffee.