I noticed the second I walked in.

He was here.

Same worn-out apron, same tired-but-focused expression, moving behind the counter like always. And yet, when I stepped up to order, it wasn’t him who greeted me.

Some other guy—cheerful, overly enthusiastic, the kind of person who talks too much for a simple coffee order. I kept glancing past him, waiting, half-expecting him to step in. But he didn’t.

And, honestly? I wasn’t a fan.

I exhale, settling into my usual table, fingers drumming against my notepad. It’s stupid, I know. It’s not like I come here just for him.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

I peel off a post-it, pressing my pen to the paper before I can talk myself out of it.

"You were here today, but another guy came over to take my order. Not a fan of that, to be honest."

- J

I set the note down beside my cup, stand, and grab my coat.

This time, as I head for the door, I let my gaze drift toward the counter. Just for a second.

And maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but I swear—

He’s already looking.