I was wiping the counter when he stopped outside again.
Same hoodie, same blank face, no umbrella.
"You forgot it again?" I asked.
"Yeah."
I handed him one from the stand. "Bring it back tomorrow."
He took it and left.
That was the first time we talked.
The next morning, he passed by the shop. "Thanks for the umbrella," he said.
"You can keep it," I said.
He paused, then shook his head. "No, you might need it again."
He placed it against the door and walked off.
He came back during lunch break. "Do you sell indoor plants?"
"In the back," I said.
He walked in, hands in pockets, looked around, then pointed. "That one."
"A cactus?"
"Yeah. Easier to keep alive."
I packed it and gave him the box.
"Do you take cash?" he asked.
"Sure."
He paid, nodded once, and left.
That became a pattern. Every few days, he came in. Always short questions. Always quick exits.
He wasn't awkward—just quiet.
By the third visit, I learned his name from the card on his desk when I went next door to drop change he left behind.
Ethan Zhao – Designer.
He looked surprised when I showed up.
"You didn't have to," he said.
"It's your money."
He took it. "Still. You didn't have to."
I was about to leave, but he asked, "Do you drink coffee?"
"Sometimes."
"Come by the café later," he said. "I'll pay."
I didn't answer then.
After work, I went anyway. He was already there.
"You came," he said.
"You invited."
He smiled. "Fair enough."
We didn't talk much. He drank his black. I had milk with sugar. It wasn't a date. Just coffee.
When we left, he walked me halfway back.
"Busy tomorrow?" he asked.
"Same as today."
He nodded. "See you then."
It went on like that for weeks.
Sometimes he'd show up at the shop door, hand me a drink, say nothing, and go.
Sometimes I'd find his umbrella left at the door even when it hadn't rained.
We didn't text. We didn't call.
We just kept meeting.
One day, he said, "You open early."
"Habit," I said.
"You live nearby?"
"Ten minutes' walk."
He thought for a second. "Want me to walk you home tonight?"
"Why?"
"It's dark lately."
I said no. But later, when I locked up, he was outside anyway.
"You're persistent," I said.
"Not really," he said. "Just happened to finish late."
He walked beside me the whole way. Didn't try to talk much. When we reached the turn to my street, he stopped.
"This okay?"
"Yeah."
"Alright. See you tomorrow."
The next morning, there was coffee waiting by the shop door before I arrived.
No note. Just the cup, still warm.
After that, he started showing up every day. Sometimes for two minutes, sometimes for an hour. He'd help me lift the crates or stand by the door when the delivery truck came. He never asked for discounts, never flirted, never crossed a line.
He just stayed.
One evening, he said, "You ever take a day off?"
"Not really."
"You should."
"You offering to run the shop?"
"Not qualified."
I laughed. He smiled. It felt easy.
Then it hit me—I'd been waiting for him to come every day without realizing it.
He noticed. "What?"
"Nothing."
He didn't press.
When he left that night, I stood at the doorway longer than usual.
The street was quiet, lights still on at his studio. I could see him through the glass, bent over his desk, sketching.
Three days passed without him showing up.
By the fourth, I noticed myself checking the door every few minutes.
When I caught it, I laughed. Then stopped.
He came in on the fifth day, hair still wet, shirt half-tucked.
"You were gone," I said.
"Had a deadline."
"Missed your cactus."
He looked at it on the shelf. "Still alive?"
"Barely."
He smiled. "That makes two of us."
He sounded tired. Not sad, just worn out.
"You want tea?" I asked.
"Sure."
He sat at the counter while I made it.
"You always this quiet?" I asked.
He nodded. "Mostly."
"Work thing?"
"Personality thing."
I handed him the cup. "Then we'll keep it that way."
He stayed longer than usual. Didn't say much. Just drank, watched the rain outside, then left.
After that, he started coming around at night instead of mornings.
Sometimes with takeout, sometimes just to sit.
He'd set his laptop on the counter, work while I finished closing up.
One night, he asked, "You always eat alone?"
"Yeah."
"You want to change that?"
I looked up. "What, you asking me to dinner?"
"Something like that."
"Fine. But you're paying."
He smiled. "Deal."
The next night, he texted me for the first time.
6 p.m. at Blue Door?
I typed back: Okay.
When I got there, he was waiting by the door, no jacket, just a gray shirt.
"You're early," I said.
"You're late," he said.
He opened the door for me.
The place was small—wood tables, quiet music, not fancy.
We ordered. He didn't talk much, but it wasn't awkward.
Halfway through, he said, "You know, I didn't think you'd actually come."
"Why?"
"You don't seem like the type."
"What type?"
"The type that says yes easily."
He wasn't wrong.
"Guess I got curious," I said.
"About what?"
"You."
That shut him up for a second.
Then he asked, "What did you figure out?"
"Nothing yet."
"Good," he said. "Keep it that way."
When the food came, we didn't talk again until dessert.
He pushed the menu toward me. "Pick something."
"You pick."
"I'm bad at that."
"So am I."
We both ended up ordering the same thing by accident. He laughed.
That was the first time I saw him laugh properly—head tilted, shoulders loose.
After dinner, he walked me to the station.
"Want me to wait?" he asked.
"No."
"Sure?"
"Yeah."
He nodded.
I got on the train and watched him through the window until the doors closed.
When I got home, there was a message:
Forgot to say thanks. For coming.
I didn't reply.
The next morning, he showed up again. No talk about last night.
He helped me move flower boxes inside and stayed until the last customer left.
When I turned off the lights, he said, "You ever think about leaving this place?"
"Where would I go?"
"Anywhere."
"You?"
"Same."
He paused. "But I might leave soon. Got a call from Shanghai."
"For work?"
He nodded. "Temporary. A few months maybe."
I felt something twist in my chest. "When?"
"Next week."
I didn't say anything.
He looked at me. "You okay?"
"Yeah."
He didn't believe it, but he let it go.
When he left that night, he didn't look back.
---
The week went fast.
He came every day, like nothing changed.
We talked about everything except the move.
On the last night, he stayed until I locked the shop.
"You sure you'll be fine?" he asked.
"I've been fine before you showed up."
"Right," he said. "Still."
He handed me a small box. "Don't open it now."
"Why?"
"Just don't."
I nodded.
He looked like he wanted to say something else but didn't.
"Take care," I said.
"You too."
He walked away.
I went home and opened the box anyway.
Inside was a new cactus.
Smaller than the first one.
No note.