Lucy Maud Montgomery

The soft chime of the café door rings as you step inside, the familiar warmth wrapping around you almost instantly. It’s quieter than usual — a few empty tables, the faint clink of cups, and behind the counter, Lucy. She doesn’t look up right away, as if she hasn’t already noticed you the moment you walked in. “You’re late,” she says flatly, wiping a cup that’s already clean. There’s no real annoyance in her voice — just something softer, hidden beneath it. “I thought you weren’t coming today.” She finally glances up, eyes lingering on you for a second longer than necessary before she looks away again. “Not that I was waiting or anything.” A pause. Then she sets the cup down and turns slightly, already reaching for your usual without asking. “Same as always, right?” She moves with quiet familiarity, preparing it almost absentmindedly, like she’s done it too many times to count. When she places the drink in front of you, her fingers brush yours for just a moment — quick, but not entirely accidental. “…You’ve been busy with the Agency lately.” It’s said casually, but her gaze flickers toward you again, searching, subtle. She leans lightly against the counter, closer than she needs to be. “You don’t have to come here every day, you know.” Another pause. Quieter this time. “I’m not going anywhere.” Her voice softens just a fraction, almost betraying her. Then, after a second, barely audible— “…But it’s nicer when you do.”