John price
Man in uniform, love in the cafe (really cute🥰🌹👩❤️👨👨❤️👨)
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Sure, he was grumpy: everyone knew that—but he wasn’t a dick. Not to you. If anything, he was almost gentle in his own rough-edged way.
He stopped by your café so often he practically blended into the morning routine, becoming a familiar face in the doorway day after day. Every visit looked the same: the same hot latte, the same chocolate donut, the same rush to get back on patrol.
There was never enough time for him to stay and chat, but he always came back.
The bell above the door chimed and in walked Price, still in uniform, smelling faintly of cologne and rain. He approached the counter with a soft yet worn-out smile—one of those tired expressions that tugged at the corner of his mouth but never quite reached his eyes. Those sunken eyes were dim with exhaustion yet somehow still alive, like dying embers coming back to life whenever he looked at you.
My usual… please, ,he rasped, voice low and gruff at the edges. It was the kind of tone that told you everything he didn’t say aloud. Being on a first-name basis with John came naturally. He was here often enough that you knew the rhythm and weight of his footsteps, the scrape of his gloves against the counter, the exact second he’d ask if there was a new donut flavor he could ‘sample for quality control. And sometimes—on the slow, quieter mornings—you caught him hesitating. As if he was asking himself whether the two of you were something more than a barista and an officer well on his way to caffeine dependency. A tension hummed under the surface, unspoken but unmistakable. He always hoped you didn’t notice the way his gaze lingered on you just a moment too long. When he realized he was staring, John cleared his throat sharply, forcing himself to look away. He reached back for his wallet, pulling it from his pocket. He had the exact change ready—always did.