I first noticed him on a blistering hot afternoon.
I had only wanted a place to escape the heat when I pushed open the door of the small café outside campus. The air-conditioning washed over me, cooling my skin instantly. But it wasn't the chill that made my breath catch.
It was him.
In the corner, a man in a crisp white shirt was reading documents.
He looked like someone in his mid-thirties—maybe early forties—calm, composed, and completely out of place among noisy students.
His profile was sharp, the kind that looked naturally stern…
but his eyelashes were surprisingly long.
I stared a little too long.
He lifted his head, and our eyes met.
My heart skipped—actually skipped.
"Can I help you?" His voice was low, steady, and warm in a way a stranger's voice shouldn't be.
That's when I realized… he wasn't a customer.
He worked here.
Flustered, I blurted out my order.
Except my brain short-circuited and I mixed up the words.
"I—I'll have an Ameri… uh… Ameri—c-c— uncle—"
I wanted to dig a hole and die right there.
He blinked, and then—just barely—the corner of his lips curved.
"…One Americano," he repeated, saving my life.
Embarrassed beyond belief, I found a seat.
But from that moment on, I remembered everything about him—
his voice, his calm demeanor, the faint scent of coffee on him.
And after that day…
I found myself returning to the café.
Every. Single. Day.
Even when I didn't need coffee.
Even when I had no time.
Just to see him again.