FBI Dex is all i think about, so i’ll drop this here.
Part 2
⌞ He likes routine. You notice people.
What begins as a familiar order exchanged across a coffee shop counter slowly becomes something far more dangerous: an attachment neither of you sees coming.
Especially not Benjamin Poindexter. ⌝
. . .ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁
The shrill sound of your alarm cut through the darkness of your apartment, dragging you from sleep far earlier than any human being should reasonably be awake. For several seconds, you remained motionless beneath the blankets, staring at the ceiling while your brain attempted to process the fact that morning had arrived once again. The glowing numbers on your phone informed you that it was 4:45 a.m., which felt less like a real time and more like a personal attack.
A groan escaped as you rolled onto your back and rubbed your eyes. Somewhere outside, the city was already beginning to stir. A distant siren echoed through the streets below, followed by the rumble of a delivery truck and the unmistakable sound of someone yelling despite the fact that the sun hadn't even risen yet. New York never slept, which unfortunately meant it expected everyone else to be awake too.
The temptation to remain in bed was almost overwhelming. Your blankets were warm. The apartment was cold. More importantly, there was absolutely no version of reality in which standing behind a coffee counter before sunrise sounded appealing. Unfortunately, landlords had developed an irritating habit of expecting rent, and rent required employment, and employment required showing up. The entire system felt deeply flawed. With the reluctance of a prisoner marching toward their execution, you finally pushed yourself upright and shuffled toward the bathroom. The sight waiting for you in the mirror did little to improve your mood. Your hair appeared to have spent the night engaged in some kind of violent altercation, and judging by the results, it had lost. You stared at your reflection for a long moment before narrowing your eyes.
"You know," you muttered, grabbing your toothbrush, "a little cooperation would be nice." Your reflection remained unhelpful.
By the time you finished getting ready and stepped outside, the sky was still painted in shades of dark blue and gray. The morning air carried a sharp chill that immediately woke you up more effectively than the alarm had, and you buried your hands deeper into your jacket pockets as you began the familiar walk toward the café. The streets were slowly filling with life: construction workers grabbing breakfast from food carts, commuters hurrying toward subway entrances, delivery drivers unloading trucks along the curb. It was the same scene every morning, everyone was headed somewhere, everyone had somewhere to be, including you. The thought became significantly more bearable once you remembered there would be coffee involved. Not customer coffee, obviously. That would require patience and effort. You meant your coffee, the one you'd make for yourself the second you walked through the employee entrance. Frankly, the customers should be grateful. Without caffeine, there was a very real possibility you would accidentally hand out soup instead of espresso. Fortunately, after years of opening shifts, you'd learned that most disasters could be prevented with enough coffee and a questionable amount of determination.
[ 𝟲:𝟭𝟭 𝗔.𝗠 ─ · · ]
There was something strangely comforting about the chaos of New York mornings. Most people hated it. The endless noise, the crowded sidewalks, the impatient commuters weaving through traffic as if every second of their lives was scheduled down to the minute. The city never seemed to stop moving, and for some people that was exhausting. The café sat on a busy corner in Hell’s Kitchen, tucked between a dry cleaner and a bookstore that somehow managed to survive despite the city’s determination to replace everything with luxury apartments. It wasn’t particularly famous, and it certainly wasn’t trendy enough to attract influencers with cameras and overpriced handbags. Most of the regulars were office workers, construction crews, hospital staff, and people simply trying to survive another day in Manhattan. You liked it that way. The job itself wasn’t glamorous. The pay wasn’t great, your feet hurt constantly, and every morning brought at least one customer who acted as though waiting two minutes for coffee was a personal attack. Still, there were worse ways to make a living, you liked the routine. You liked knowing that Mr. Thompson from the law office around the corner would arrive at 6:45 every morning and order an extra-hot cappuccino. You liked that the woman with the green scarf always tipped three dollars regardless of what she bought. You liked the smell of fresh pastries before the doors opened and the brief moment of silence before the morning rush stormed through.
People were predictable. Most of them, anyway. The man from the FBI building across the street was the exception.
You’d noticed him months ago, though you couldn’t pinpoint exactly when he’d begun standing out from the endless stream of customers that passed through the café every day. Maybe it was because he was always there. Not occasionally. Not when it was convenient. Always. Every weekday morning, sometime after the rush began but before the line became unbearable, the bell above the door would chime and he’d step inside. It wasn’t that he was particularly friendly. If anything, he seemed to go out of his way not to draw attention to himself. He never lingered by the counter after receiving his order, never struck up conversations with the staff, never complained when the line was long or his coffee took an extra minute. Unlike some of the businessmen who frequented the café, he didn’t flash charming smiles or attempt awkward flirtation while waiting for his drink. He simply arrived, stood patiently in line, and waited. Even the way he waited was different.
Most people shifted their weight, checked their phones, glanced impatiently at their watches. He did none of that. He stood quietly, shoulders squared beneath a dark suit, his gaze fixed somewhere ahead as though he were already thinking about the rest of his day. There was a stillness to him that felt unusual in a city like New York, where everyone seemed to be in motion. And when his turn came, the routine never changed. A large black coffee. No cream. No sugar. No pastry from the display case despite passing it every morning. No seasonal drinks, no sudden cravings, no curiosity about the specials written on the chalkboard behind the register. Just the same order, delivered in the same calm voice, before he accepted the cup with a quiet thank you and disappeared back out onto the sidewalk. The entire interaction rarely lasted more than a minute. Yet somehow, out of all the faces that came and went each day, he was the one you found yourself recognizing immediately. At first, he’d blended into the endless stream of customers passing through every day. Then you’d started recognizing him.
You didn’t know his name, and you weren’t entirely sure what he actually did beyond whatever role the FBI badge clipped discreetly to his belt suggested. The badge answered one question while creating a dozen others, leaving you with little more than assumptions and passing observations. What you did know, however, was that he rarely smiled, at least not in the way most people did. There were no easy grins offered out of politeness, no casual laughter shared with coworkers, no expressions that lingered long enough to be fully understood. On the rare occasion amusement seemed to touch his features, it appeared only briefly, a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth or a subtle softening around his eyes, before vanishing so quickly that you often wondered if you’d imagined it in the first place.
Occasionally something would flicker across his face when another customer said something amusing, but it vanished so quickly you often wondered if you’d imagined it. You’d spent enough years working customer service to recognize loneliness when you saw it. There was something lonely about him. Just isolated. As though he existed slightly outside the rest of the world. The thought crossed your mind whenever he came in. Then the next customer would need help, another drink would need making, and life would continue. It wasn’t as though he mattered. He was just another regular. A man whose name you didn’t know, a man who ordered the same coffee every morning, a man you occasionally wondered about when business was slow. Nothing more.
At least, that’s what you told yourself.
The bell above the entrance chimed as the front door opened. Without looking up from the cups in front of you, you reached for a marker.
“Large black coffee.”
The order slipped from your mouth automatically, carried by habit rather than thought. Your fingers had already curled around a paper cup from the stack beneath the counter, and the familiar click of the marker cap echoed softly as you uncapped it with one hand. The motion was second nature by now. Hundreds of customers passed through the café every week, but some orders lodged themselves into your memory so deeply that your body reacted before your mind had the chance to catch up. You scribbled across the side of the cup, the black ink dragging over the cardboard surface. The silence stretched longer than it should have, long enough for a faint knot of embarrassment to tighten in your stomach. Your marker hovered over the cup, and suddenly you became acutely aware of every movement you were making. The chatter of customers behind him, the hiss of steaming milk from the espresso machine, the low hum of the refrigerator beside the pastry case, all of it seemed louder now that he hadn’t answered.
𝘏𝘢𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳? 𝘏𝘢𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘪𝘹𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘶𝘱 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦? 𝘎𝘰𝘥, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘺?
Heat crept steadily up your neck, and you resisted the urge to wince at yourself. You’d been working here long enough to know better than to assume, yet somehow you’d gone ahead and done exactly that. The paper cup felt awkward in your hand all of a sudden, and you shifted your grip around it, feeling the smooth cardboard press against your palm as a nervous laugh threatened to escape. Maybe he’d finally decided he wanted something different. Maybe today was the day he’d shock the entire café and order a vanilla latte. The thought almost made you laugh. Still, when no response came, your pulse picked up just enough to make you glance up from beneath your lashes, hoping to salvage whatever dignity you had left before this became one of those moments that replayed in your head at two in the morning for absolutely no reason. A small crease formed between your brows as you lifted your head. The man was standing exactly where he always stood, one hand resting loosely against the strap of the leather messenger bag slung over his shoulder. The morning sunlight filtered through the front windows behind him, catching against the dark fabric of his suit and outlining the sharp angles of his frame. Up close, he looked younger than you’d first assumed when he’d started coming in months ago, though there was something about the seriousness he carried that added years back onto him.
His eyes were on you. For a moment, neither of you spoke.
“Oh.” You let out a quiet laugh, lowering the marker onto the counter. The plastic clicked against the surface. “That was probably weird.” For the briefest second, something shifted across his expression.
“You remembered.” His voice was deeper than you’d expected the first time you’d heard it months ago. Even now, there was something measured about the way he spoke, as though every word had been carefully selected before leaving his mouth. You glanced down at the cup still sitting in your hand before looking back at him.“Well, you’ve made it pretty easy.”
The smile tugging at your lips came naturally.
“I think you’ve ordered the exact same thing every morning since the day you started coming here.”
The corners of his mouth didn’t move, but his gaze flickered briefly toward the cup.“You know that?” The question sounded genuine, not flirtatious. You found yourself smiling a little more because of it.
“I work in a coffee shop,” you said, setting the cup aside and leaning lightly against the counter. “Remembering orders is basically the closest thing I have to a superpower.”
Still, he continued to hold your gaze, and what struck you wasn’t the fact that he was looking at you, but the absence of everything you normally associated with being looked at. There was no expectation behind it, no hint of judgment, no obvious attempt at flirtation. Most people looked at others with some purpose in mind, whether they realized it or not. His attention felt different. Quiet. Thoughtful. As though he were trying to understand something rather than evaluate it.
Under normal circumstances, the prolonged eye contact probably should have made you uncomfortable. It certainly would’ve if it had come from anyone else. Yet standing there beneath the warm glow of the café lights, with the sounds of steaming milk and morning conversations humming around you, you found that it didn’t. If anything, it reminded you of the way you’d caught him observing the café countless times before. While most customers buried themselves in their phones while waiting for their drinks, he always seemed aware of his surroundings, his gaze moving from table to table, customer to customer, silently cataloging details that everyone else overlooked. The difference now was that, for the first time, his attention wasn’t on the room. It was on you.
You cleared your throat and slid the cup across the counter, the cardboard sleeve brushing lightly against your fingertips before coming to a stop in front of him. A curl of steam rose from the small opening in the lid, carrying the rich scent of coffee between you. Behind the counter, the espresso machine hissed as someone steamed milk for another order, while the steady murmur of conversation filled the café. It was the same noise you’d listened to every morning for months, yet for some reason it seemed to fade into the background now that his attention was fixed on you.
“Well,” you said with a small laugh, still feeling the lingering embarrassment from your assumption, “at least now I know I haven’t completely lost my mind. It would’ve been really embarrassing if I’d confidently made a large black coffee for the wrong person.”
His hand settled around the cup, long fingers wrapping easily around the sleeve. Instead of immediately answering, he glanced down at the drink and then back at you, as though he were giving the question more thought than it deserved. Up close, the seriousness in his expression was almost surprising. Most people would’ve laughed and moved on. He looked like he was actually considering the possibility.
“I don’t think that would’ve happened,” he said at last. You tilted your head slightly. “No?” The faint crease between his brows deepened, and for a moment you wondered if he was trying to figure out why you’d asked. “No,” he repeated. “You knew my order before I said anything.” The answer pulled a smile from you despite yourself. Resting your forearms against the counter, you shook your head lightly. “I know a lot of people’s orders. That’s part of the job.”
“Not like that.”
Something in his tone made you pause. He wasn’t arguing. He wasn’t trying to flatter you, either. He simply sounded certain. Your fingers drummed absently against the countertop as you studied him. “Okay, now I’m curious. What does that mean?” For the first time, his gaze shifted away from you. He glanced briefly toward the crowded café before returning his attention to your face. “Most people don’t pay attention.” The response caught you off guard. A customer stepped up behind him, checking their phone while waiting for the line to move. Somewhere near the windows, a chair scraped against the floor. The city outside rushed past in a blur of suits, briefcases, and yellow cabs, yet the strange sincerity in his voice lingered. “Maybe,” you said, smiling faintly. “Or maybe you’re just really easy to remember.” That seemed to stop him.
Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But you saw it. The slight pause. The almost imperceptible shift in his expression. “Why?”
The question came so genuinely that you nearly laughed.
“Because you come in every morning at almost exactly the same time, order the exact same thing, and leave before the coffee’s even had a chance to cool down.” You gestured vaguely toward him. “Honestly, if you changed your order now, I’d probably think something was wrong.”
For a second, neither of you spoke. Then, so faintly you almost missed it, the corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn’t a smile in the usual sense. It never quite reached that point. Still, it changed something about his face, softening the severity that normally settled there. “I like routine,” he said. The words were simple, but there was no embarrassment behind them, no attempt to disguise the truth beneath a joke. He stated it plainly, as though there was nothing unusual about it at all. You found yourself smiling. “Well, as someone who has to memorize hundreds of coffee orders, I appreciate your commitment to consistency.” His fingers tightened slightly around the cup, and for the first time since you’d known him, you thought he looked amused.
“Good,” he replied.
The answer was so earnest that you had to bite back a laugh.
As he wrapped his hand around the coffee cup and turned toward the door, you found yourself speaking before you could think better of it.
"Same time tomorrow?"
The question carried a teasing note, light enough to pass as a joke, though something in his expression seemed to still at the sound of it. He glanced back over his shoulder, morning light catching against the sharp line of his jaw, and gave a small nod.
"I'll be here."
There was nothing particularly remarkable about the answer. It was simple, direct, spoken with the same certainty he seemed to bring to everything else. Yet as the bell above the door chimed and he disappeared onto the sidewalk, weaving effortlessly into the current of people rushing through Hell's Kitchen, you found yourself smiling down at the register for reasons you couldn't quite explain.
