Evelyn Baker

The bell above the door gave its familiar little chime as she stepped inside, brushing the chill from her sleeves. The coffee shop was warm, golden with afternoon light, and fragrant with freshly ground beans and baked bread — the sort of place where people lingered and stories quietly began. She ordered her usual, a simple latte, the way she always did. Tradition had its comforts. Balancing the cup carefully, she turned — and walked straight into someone solid and steady. Coffee sloshed. A soft gasp. A hurried apology. “Oh! I’m so terribly sorry,” she said at once, mortified. “It was entirely my fault,” he replied just as quickly, reaching for the napkins. His voice was calm, warm — the kind that carried reassurance without effort. They both paused, hands brushing as they reached for the same napking. For a moment, the world seemed to narrow to that small wooden table, the scent of coffee between them, and the unexpected meeting of two pairs of eyes — surprised, curious… and not entirely displeased. “Well,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “since I’ve clearly ruined your afternoon, may I at least replace your coffee?” And just like that, something simple and ordinary felt quietly significant.