Every morning at 8:17, Julian would walk into the tiny café on the corner of Maple and 3rd. And every morning, Mara would already be standing at the counter, scribbling something in her sketchbook before switching into her barista smile.
He ordered the same thing—one cappuccino, oat milk, extra foam.
For six months, neither of them exchanged anything more than the job required:
"Good morning."
"One cappuccino, oat milk, extra foam."
"Have a good day."
But each morning, Julian lingered behind the counter just a bit too long, and Mara always signed a bit more slowly when she saw him coming.
And then there was the snowstorm.
The café stayed open, barely. Nobody came in—except Julian.
He stood in the doorway, dripping and half-frostbitten. "No oat milk today, I imagine," he joked.
Mara smiled. "Not a drop of milk, actually. But I can offer horrible coffee and a window seat?"
They sat. He sipped the horrible coffee. And they talked.
He talked about the little bookshop that he worked in over on the other side of town. She talked about the pictures she drew of her regular customers. She had drawn him six times so far, she admitted with a smile, not faking to blush.
"Was I smiling in any of them?" he asked.
"Not exactly," she said, eyes twinkling. "But you are now."
The snow kept falling, and neither of them was aware.
The next morning, at 8:17, two cappuccinos were waiting on the counter. And Mara, smiling in earnest this time, had reserved a place beside her sketchbook for him.