I turn.
He’s standing outside the coffee shop across from the building, jacket open, tie already loosened. One hand around a cup, the other in his pocket.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning.”
There’s a pause. Charged. Familiar.
“Heading in,” he asks.
I glance at the door. Then back at him.
“I can be late five minutes.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “So can I.”
Inside, he stands close in line. Not touching. Close enough that I feel him—his warmth, his presence, the scent I still register far too easily.
I notice everything. I just don’t owe him a reaction to it.
He pays before I can protest.
When the barista slides the drinks across, he adds a brownie.
“You didn’t ask,” I say.
“You skip breakfast.”
“And if I was allergic?”
He lifts a brow. “Are you.”
“No.”
“Then we’re fine.”
He says it like a conclusion. I let it stand, mostly because I want to see if he’ll keep earning that confidence.
We sit by the window. Knees almost touching.
He watches me take the first bite.
“What,” I ask.
“Nothing.”
I break off a piece and slide it toward him. Our fingers brush.
Not accidental.
When we leave, he holds the door. His hand settles briefly at my lower back—guiding, respectful—and then it’s gone.
It becomes a thing.
Accidentally on purpose.
Coffee together. Every morning.
