One evening after class, I headed to the café like I always did.
But the place was unusually crowded.
Before I even reached the counter, he placed a freshly made hot Americano in front of me.
"For you," he said simply.
I blinked. "But… I didn't order yet."
"You always get this," he replied, still wiping a glass.
He didn't look at me, but his voice was gentle.
"And today's weather is better for something hot. You're sweating a little."
My heart melted like sugar dropped into warm coffee.
I took the cup and sat down, feeling stupidly warm inside.
Before I finished my drink, he stopped by my table again.
"You come here every day," he said, voice lower than usual.
"Don't you have anything better to do, kid?"
Kid?
I stared up at him, words stuck in my throat.
I wanted to say:
I come here because you're here.
But I swallowed the confession and said, "…Maybe not."
He let out a soft sigh—half helpless, half indulgent.
"Do what you want," he said. "Just don't go home too late."
My heart didn't just skip.
It sprinted.
That night, I admitted it to myself fully—
I liked him.
This calm, unreadable, too-mature man I shouldn't like.
And yet…
I couldn't look away.