The day didn't start with sunlight. It started with his mom's voice, sharp and impossible to ignore, cutting through the quiet like an alarm clock wired straight to stress.
"Lila! You're going to be late again!"
Leo groaned, wiped his face, and tried to untangle himself from the sheets.
Downstairs, someone stomped around, a door slammed, and his sister's voice came floating up, all drama and zero guilt.
"I'm ready! God, Mom, chill! It's literally five minutes!"
He forced himself upright, the air still thick with sleep.
The bathroom mirror didn't help—he looked wrecked, hair wild, eyes half-shut. No time to fix any of it, though. He had a café shift coming up.
Downstairs, Lila spun in front of the TV, swiping on lip gloss like she had nowhere to be.
Their mom stood by the door, missing a slipper, waving a wooden spoon for emphasis.
"Gloss won't save you from detention!" she snapped.
Lila just rolled her eyes. "Neither will yelling."
Leo snorted, and both of them shot him matching glares. He grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and aimed for the exit.
"Leo! Breakfast!"
He waved without looking back. "No time, Ma. I'll grab something later."
"You will not go out on an empty stomach!" Already pouring coffee, she muttered about "grown kids with no sense of self-preservation." Before he could protest, she shoved a mug into his hand. "Drink. And don't come home fainting again like last week."
He blew on the coffee, its smell waking him up more than anything else. "Yeah, yeah," he said, but he couldn't help grinning a little.
Lila tore past, shoes barely on, yelling, "Bye! Love you!" as she shot out the door.
Their mom leaned on the counter, hair escaping its bun, looking worn out and a little amused. "Every morning feels like a war zone."
Leo took a long sip and grinned. "No casualties today, at least."
She gave him that look—half strict, half secretly pleased. "Go. Before your boss puts you on a poster."
"Already gone," he said, setting the mug down. He stepped outside, the house still buzzing behind him—messy, noisy, but it always felt like home.
The air outside was chilly, the kind that sneaks up your sleeves.
The street barely awake—vendors tugging up metal shutters, a bus coughing to life, the smell of fried dough already drifting around.
Leo picked up his pace, hunching against the wind, sneakers scraping the sidewalk.
He'd gotten good at timing things—the shortcut through the alley, the crosswalk right before the light switched, the difference between being early and being late enough for his boss to notice.
His phone buzzed. Aiden, his boss:
Don't be late again, Leo.
He sighed and texted back:
Already on my way.
Total lie—he was still two blocks away.
He passed the pharmacy where he'd bought his mom's medicine last night. The price still stung. What little cash he had left didn't mean much now.
He shoved those thoughts away and kept going.
A street vendor called out, "Coffee? Fresh bread?"
Leo held up his mug. "Already sorted!"
"Good luck, boy! You'll need it," the guy laughed, turning to the next customer.
Leo smiled, just a bit. The warmth of that laugh stayed with him as he walked on.
He pushed open the café door, and the smell of fresh coffee hit him—familiar, sharp, and weirdly comforting.
The bell jingled overhead. Aiden didn't even look up from behind the counter.
"Three minutes late."
Leo stopped, caught mid-step. "Seriously? You time me?"
Aiden arched an eyebrow, sliding croissants into the case. "With your track record? Yeah."
Leo rolled his eyes, heading behind the counter to grab his apron. "You know, most people say 'good morning.'"
Aiden just shrugged. "Most people aren't you."
Leo shot him a look. "Lucky for you, I'm irreplaceable."
"Debatable," Aiden said, but he smirked as he handed Leo the first order slip.
And then the morning really kicked in—the hiss of the espresso machine, cups clattering, soft music blending into the low buzz of regulars chatting.
Leo got into the swing of it. The tiredness faded. He stopped thinking about bills or deadlines—just poured coffee, called out names, and kept moving.
The rush hit early.
Students in uniforms, office workers glued to their phones, all looking half-dead and desperate for caffeine.
No one wanted to talk—they just wanted their cups, and Leo was happy to keep things moving.
Leo moved fast—foam, pour, handoff, do it all again.
His sleeves were shoved up, hair slipping into his eyes.
Every so often, Aiden would brush past to snag a tray or fiddle with the espresso machine.
They worked around each other without missing a beat.
"You missed a spot," Aiden said, nodding at a spill on the counter.
Leo swiped it up in one motion. "You notice everything, don't you?"
"Someone's gotta keep you from burning the place down."
"Hey, that almost happened once. Once!"
Aiden shot him a look, part annoyed, part amused. "Once is one too many."
Leo didn't care—he just grinned. "Still took me back, though."
"Yeah, and I still wonder why." But Aiden's voice was light, and Leo felt himself relax.
The rush died down. Aiden leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee. "You skipped breakfast again, didn't you?"
Leo froze, mid-wipe. "Had coffee."
"That's not food."
"It's liquid energy."
Aiden rolled his eyes, set his cup down, and nudged a paper bag toward him. Inside: a sandwich, still warm. "Eat. Or I'll tack another minute onto your late count."
Leo stared. "You got this for me?"
Aiden shrugged. "Don't get cocky. It was extra."
"Right," Leo said, unwrapping it anyway. The first bite landed in his stomach like a little lifesaver. "You know, for a guy who complains so much, you're actually pretty decent."
Aiden snorted. "Keep that to yourself. I have a reputation."
Leo grinned, mouth full. "Too late. Told the group chat already."
"You're not even in the group."
"Yet."
Aiden shook his head, muttering something about "hopeless kids." That faint smile stuck around, though.
Sunlight crept in through the window, lighting up the rows of glass cups and turning the counter gold.
Leo leaned back, still chewing. For a second, he just let it be—the warmth, the noise, the quiet moments in between.
Maybe this was enough. Maybe the world wasn't always so heavy.