Mornings had always been her favorite part of the day.
Not because they were productive. Not because they were hopeful in some grand, cinematic way. But because mornings, when handled gently, didn't ask much of anyone.
Ava believed mornings revealed the truth of a life.
The way a room breathed before the noise arrived.
The way sunlight touched surfaces without trying to impress.
The way time moved when no one was chasing it yet.
She sat by the window of her small apartment, one leg tucked beneath her, a ceramic mug warming her palms. Outside, the city was waking up slowly—delivery trucks humming in the distance, a neighbor watering plants on a balcony across the street, birds perched on wires as if deciding whether the day was worth the effort.
Ava took a sip of her coffee and exhaled.
She liked the quiet version of herself best.
The version that existed before expectations.
Her phone buzzed softly on the table.
She didn't look at it right away.
That, too, was intentional.
When she finally did glance down, it was a message from her sister.
Did you sleep?
Ava smiled and typed back.
Enough. You?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Barely. You always sound so calm.
Ava tilted her head, considering that.
It's not calm. It's practiced.
She set the phone aside again, turning her attention back to the morning light creeping along the floor. The apartment wasn't large—just a one-bedroom with mismatched furniture and shelves that carried more books than decorations—but it felt lived-in. Earned.
Chosen.
Ava hadn't always lived like this.
Once, she had rushed through mornings. Grabbed coffee on the way out. Let deadlines dictate her breathing. Measured her worth by how full her calendar was.
But something in her had grown tired of the noise.
She had not burned out.
She had not broken down.
She had simply… slowed.
And the world, surprisingly, had not ended because of it.
The café opened at nine.
Ava arrived at eight-thirty, as she always did, unlocking the door and stepping into the familiar scent of roasted beans and yesterday's sugar lingering faintly in the air.
She turned on the lights, tied her apron, and moved through the motions with ease—wiping down counters, setting out cups, checking the pastry case.
There was comfort in repetition.
The bell above the door chimed softly at eight forty-five.
She looked up, expecting her coworker.
Instead, it was him.
He stood just inside the doorway, hesitating as if unsure whether he was early or unwelcome. Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a coat that looked too heavy for spring, he held the door open for a moment longer than necessary before letting it close behind him.
Ava studied him without staring.
He looked… tired.
Not the dramatic kind of tired. Not exhaustion worn like a badge.
The quiet kind.
The kind that sat behind the eyes.
"Sorry," he said, clearing his throat. "Are you open yet?"
Ava smiled, small and warm. "Officially? No. But I can make you a coffee."
His shoulders relaxed just a little.
"That would be great," he said. "Thank you."
He stepped forward, glancing around the café as if taking inventory of the space—the wooden tables, the plants near the windows, the chalkboard menu written in careful handwriting.
Ava moved behind the counter. "What do you like?"
He hesitated. "Something simple."
She nodded. "That's my specialty."
As she prepared the drink, she felt his gaze—not intrusive, just curious. Like someone who noticed details because he didn't know what else to do with his attention.
She slid the mug across the counter. "Here."
He wrapped his hands around it immediately, as if grateful for the warmth.
"Smells good," he said.
"It behaves," Ava replied.
That earned a quiet smile from him.
He took a sip and closed his eyes briefly.
"Oh," he murmured. "Yeah. That's good."
Ava leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely. "Rough morning?"
He exhaled. "Long night."
She nodded. No follow-up. No prying.
People often told her too much when she asked questions too soon.
He seemed to notice that.
"I'm Daniel," he offered after a moment.
"Ava."
They shared a small pause—one that felt comfortable rather than awkward.
"I just moved here," Daniel said. "Didn't know where else to go this early."
"You chose well," Ava replied. "We don't rush anyone."
He glanced at her. "That obvious?"
She smiled. "A little."
Daniel laughed softly, the sound low and unforced. "I think I needed that."
By the time the café officially opened, Daniel was still there—sitting by the window, coffee half-finished, staring out at the street like he was letting the world move without him for once.
Ava found herself glancing his way more than she meant to.
Not because he was striking.
Because he was still.
When her coworker arrived, Ava nodded toward Daniel. "First customer."
Her coworker grinned. "Looks like a regular already."
Daniel heard that and smiled faintly, but didn't comment.
When he finally stood to leave, he lingered near the counter.
"I'll be back," he said, not asking.
Ava met his gaze. "We'll be here."
That seemed to satisfy him.
After he left, the café filled the way it always did—voices, footsteps, orders called out. Life resumed its usual pace.
But something subtle had shifted.
Not excitement.
Not anticipation.
Just… awareness.
Ava caught herself thinking about the way Daniel had held the mug. The relief in his posture when he realized he didn't need to explain himself.
She shook her head gently, as if to clear it.
It was just a morning.
Just a conversation.
And yet—
Some mornings were quieter for a reason.
Some lives didn't change loudly.
Some stories began without urgency.
And Ava, standing behind the counter with the smell of coffee in the air and light spilling through the windows, had no idea that she had just met someone who would not rush her.
Someone who would learn how to stay.