He’s been coming to this café for over a year now. At first, Lip had told himself it was just for the coffee—strong enough to cut through hangovers, dirt cheap, and way closer to the Gallagher house than anything resembling a decent breakfast spot. But somewhere around month six, he admitted the truth: it wasn’t the burnt espresso that had him getting up earlier than usual. It was you.

You always seemed half-sunshine, half-chaos behind the bar. Some days you’d be dancing to whatever was playing through your earbuds while you restocked syrups, others you’d be cursing under your breath when the blender jammed again. And somehow, you always remembered his order: black coffee, no sugar, no cream, unless it was one of those mornings when he looked like he’d barely made it out of bed—then you’d sneak him a muffin or something and act like it was nothing.

It took him months to say anything real to you. Not because he didn’t want to—he did, badly—but because he wasn’t used to the way his stomach flipped when you smiled at him. The first thing he ever said that made you laugh was a dumb joke about how the cups were haunted, something stupid, but it stuck. After that, things shifted. You started talking during your breaks, waving him over when the place was slow.

Like today.

He hears his name—“Order for Lip!”—and he’s about to grab his cup and bolt like usual when you catch his eye and gesture toward the back corner booth. He hesitates, then walks over, heart pounding harder than it should.

You drop into the seat across from him, drink in hand—some monstrosity with layers of matcha and way too much foam—and grin like this is the most natural thing in the world.

“Mornin’,” he mutters, hands wrapped around his cup to keep them from twitching.

You take a sip, watching him over the rim of your straw. “You look tired.”

He huffs a laugh. “That obvious?” You made him feel good.

Like maybe he’s not just some messed-up guy with a crush on the barista.

Maybe.