It was raining again. Not the kind of dramatic storm that feels poetic, but the cold, grey kind that soaks through your coat and makes the world feel heavy.
Manila rain. The kind that clings to your skin and never lets up, puddling in street corners, soaking the hem of your jeans no matter how carefully you walk. I ducked into the café to hide from everything. The weather. My job. Myself.
The bell above the door gave a soft ding as I entered. Warmth hugged me like an old friend. The scent of brewed Barako coffee mingled with the buttery sweetness of fresh pandesal and something cinnamony baking in the back. It smelled like comfort. Like mornings I forgot to have.
I hadn't meant to cry—I never do in public—but the tears slipped out anyway. Quiet. Contained. Strategic sadness.
He noticed.
A tall guy behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, apron dusted with flour. His hair was tucked under a faded beanie, and he had flour on his cheek like he'd wiped his face without thinking. His smile didn't ask for anything. Just… offered stillness.
"You okay?" he said, voice soft like linen sheets. "Or do you just need caffeine and silence?"
I blinked at him. My throat was already tight. "Both," I managed.
He nodded like that made sense. No fuss. No pity. He turned around and went to work, steaming milk, grinding beans, moving with the ease of someone who loved the process. The kind of man who made things, not just talked about making them.
He made me a cappuccino with a little heart in the foam. Didn't charge me. Slid it across the counter and said, "Sometimes you just need someone to be kind, even if you're not sure you deserve it."
That cracked something in me. I looked at him, really looked. Warm eyes. No edge. No game. A kind of gentle curiosity that didn't feel invasive.
He tapped the counter lightly. "It's not much, but the coffee's strong. And there's banana bread coming out in fifteen minutes. Let me know if you want a slice."
"Salamat," I said before I could stop myself.
He smiled wider. "Ah. Filipino ka rin pala."
"Half," I replied. "But raised here."
He nodded like that explained something. "Ako rin. Dad's Aussie, mom's from Iloilo."
I sat down by the window, cradling the cup in my hands like it was something holy. The rain slid down the glass in soft rivulets, blurring the world outside. My coat dripped onto the floor. I didn't care. For once, I let myself be.
He came by with a glass of water and a napkin. "Just in case," he said. "Some people cry more when they drink hot drinks."
I huffed a tiny laugh. "So I've heard."
"My name's Liam," he added, like he wasn't in a rush to make anything of it.
I told him mine.
From then on, he started saving me a seat by the window. Remembered my order. Learned the rhythm of my silences before asking what was wrong. Sometimes, he'd leave little notes on the cup sleeves.
You've survived 100% of your worst days so far.
Try the banana muffin today. Not life-changing, but close.
Coffee's on the house. You look like you fought a war this week.
He was steady. The opposite of Daniel. No flash, no mystery. Just presence. And I mistook it for safety.
Maybe it was.
He didn't flirt. He showed up.
He asked about my deadlines. Brought snacks to my office "so you won't forget to eat." He remembered when I had a big presentation and texted after to ask how it went.
"Okay ka lang?" he'd say, voice always gentle. "You sound tired."
"I'm always tired," I'd joke. "It's my baseline."
He never told me to smile more. Never made me feel like I had to entertain him.
Instead, he listened. Actually listened.
He learned how I took my tea, how I paced when I was thinking, how I clenched my jaw when I was pretending everything was fine.
He brought taho to my office once—still warm, the syrup sweet and sticky, the tofu soft. "Para maiba naman," he said. "You can't think straight on caffeine alone."
When I finally let him take me to dinner, it wasn't fireworks. It was warmth. A soft light in a dim room. A shared plate of pasta and the first time I said, "I don't want to talk about work tonight."
And he didn't make me.
We talked about movies we loved as kids. He said Ang TV taught him his first jokes. I admitted I still cried every time I rewatched Magnifico. He told me he used to sketch comics in class, and I confessed I used to write poems I'd never let anyone read.
For once, I didn't feel the need to perform. There was no character to play, no angles to perfect. Just two people, sitting across from each other, eating garlic bread and trying to be honest.
At the end of the night, he didn't kiss me. Just walked me to my car, waited until I was inside, then tapped the window once with a quiet "Ingat."
I watched him disappear into the drizzle, hoodie pulled over his head, hands shoved into his pockets.
It wasn't love. Not yet.
But it was something else I hadn't felt in a long time.
Peace.