Then one afternoon, I accidentally spilled coffee onto my apron. I was fumbling with napkins, embarrassed, when I felt someone watching me.
Our eyes met.
He gave me a small smile—just a slight lift of his lips, polite and restrained. “You must be new,” he said, his voice deep, smooth, and unexpectedly gentle.
“I just started,” I replied, forcing out a nervous laugh as my cheeks warmed.
That brief exchange ended quickly, but something shifted after that. I started noticing him more closely. Quietly, from a distance, I paid attention to his habits—which branches he preferred, the type of beans he chose, how he always dropped exactly one cube of sugar into his espresso before stirring.
Eventually, he caught me.
He turned around one day and looked straight at me, his gaze calm but knowing.
“I’m aware you’ve been following me,” he said, sounding more amused than annoyed. “But my answer hasn’t changed.”
I blinked, confused. “Answer…?”
“To your interview request,” he clarified. “You’re not the first reporter who’s tried something like this.”
Then he walked away.