It was a nice day. Not a cloud in sight. Just the warm sun, a gentle breeze, and a warmer cup of hot chocolate. The barista — or should we call him the baker? Or, even better, just by his name: Morgan?

Morgan sat in the corner of the bakery/café, absorbed in a novel on his laptop.

He took a sip of his hot chocolate, the rich scent of cocoa filling his senses, followed by a bite of his croissant. Fresh, warm, and soft. He was a good baker, after all. When his boss offered him the position managing one of his other shops, he hadn’t hesitated. Here, he was a baker, barista, and manager. He loved it.

“Hello?” A voice called out as the bell above the bakery door rang.

Of course. Every time.

Morgan closed his laptop and moved behind the counter, not even looking to see who had entered. It was usually quiet around this hour, which is why he took his break then. But it was fine; he’d serve this customer, then get back to reading.

“What can I get you today?” He asked.

“Hey, it’s you.”

Morgan looked up. It was him. The man with the brown eyes. But—today, they seemed different. They were a soft, pardoning kind of brown, like garbanzo beans. Maybe it was the way the light hit them.

“What can I get you?” Morgan repeated, trying to sound casual, as if colour hadn’t just walked into his life again.

Ever since that first encounter, he saw brown everywhere: in the coffee he brewed, the bark of trees, the coats of some dogs and cats. Brown was the only colour that stood out, but only if it was the same colour of the man’s eyes.

He wasn’t sure what it meant, and he didn’t really want to know.

“It’s me, remember? The—”

“Yes, the guy who spoiled my book.” Morgan replied.

The man laughed. “Oh, right. So you’re still holding that grudge.”

“Are you going to order or not?”

“Yes, sorry. I’ll have a croissant and… a flat white.”

Morgan nodded. “Name for the order?”

The man looked around the otherwise empty room. “Um… Henry.”

_Henry_. Now the man with the brown eyes had a name.

Morgan jotted it down, then walked over to the espresso machine to start on the coffee. As the espresso extracted, he noticed it again. The warm brown.

Then, as he poured the milk into the espresso, watching it swirl, he saw something else. Another shade of brown — lighter, just like the colour of Henry’s eyes now.

When he brought the order over, he had to ask again, “What colour is the sky today?”

Henry looked at him with raised eyebrows, then glanced out the window. “Hm. Like the color of tea when you first put the bag in. A watery sort of brown, if you know what I mean. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Morgan smiled. “Yes… yes, it’s beautiful.”