The regular with extra sugar

The café was dead that afternoon—just me, the espresso machine’s hiss, and him. Third day in a row, 3 PM sharp. Tall, scruffy stubble, and a smirk that made my apron feel too tight.

“Americano, right?” I asked, already reaching for the cup.

He leaned on the counter. “You remember.”

“Pff, please. You’re the only guy who drinks black coffee and wears flip-flops in November.” I tossed my hair. “Weirdo.”

His laugh was warm. “Admit it. You’re into weirdos.”

I bit my lip, wiping the steam wand way too slow. “Maaaybe. If they tip well.”

Then his fingers brushed mine as he took the cup. A jolt. A pause. That look.

“Close early,” he murmured.

I flipped the sign to Closed before his lips met mine. The counter’s edge dug into my hips, coffee forgotten. His hands? Everywhere. “Knew you’d taste sweet,” he growled.

I giggled between kisses. “Told you… the espresso’s strong today.”