***

I’d finished reading through the memo and papers from Mrs. Widya. I closed my laptop and immediately felt restless.

My stomach? Already staging a protest like it was demanding food justice.

I walked toward the window. Across the street, a handful of cafés and restaurants were buzzing. Their neon lights flickered like friendly beacons, promising warmth and the kind of food that could fill an empty stomach.

First dinner alone in a foreign country.

I told myself—me, the literally starving introvert, still shaking while opening Google Translate.

The night air rushed in, cold and damp from the open balcony door. I inhaled deeply—faint hints of sea breeze and wood smoke filled my nose.

My stomach growled again.

Okay, focus. Find food. Don’t die in Denmark just because you're too shy to ask for the menu.

Across the street was a small café called Havnens Kaffe. It looked cozy, with big windows showing people enjoying warm meals.

Hesitation. I didn’t even know how to say "I'd like to order this" in Danish.

Another growl. Louder. Angrier.

It should be fine. They must speak English. If not, Google Translate will save humanity again.

I crossed the street cautiously—bikes here were fast, and I still wasn't used to traffic that was both polite and deadly.

Once I reached the café, I stopped.

Deep breath.

It's just people. You’re just hungry. This isn’t The Hunger Games.

Then—

"Oh! S-sorry!"

I nearly jumped out of my skin. A woman’s voice from behind the counter greeted me kindly, but she looked confused at my panicked reaction.

"English?" I asked, my voice trembling from nerves and hunger.

She smiled. "Yes, of course! Welcome to Havnens Kaffe," she said with a sexy accent that made me feel like a lost tourist in a European indie film.

"Table for one?"

I nodded. My shoulders—which had been bunched up like a crumpled hanger—relaxed a little.

Not so terrifying after all.

Minutes later, I was seated at a small table by the window. The view looked like a screensaver: cobblestone streets slick with rain, city lights reflecting in puddles, and people walking by in long coats, all looking ten times more aesthetic than me.

The menu in my hand was full of alien words: smørrebrød, frikadeller, stegt flæsk. I nearly got a migraine until I finally found a section titled International Favorites.

"Uh ... I'll have the beef burger and ... a cup of hot chocolate, please," I said, hesitant.

The server jotted it down quickly. "Great choice! It’ll be ready soon."

I let out a breath of relief and ran my hand over the rough but warm wooden table. From the kitchen, the smell of garlic and grilled meat began to drift in.

I pulled out my laptop and thank God, there was free Wi-Fi.

Even if my brain was still blank, at least I could open my draft folder, type one sentence, and scroll social media pretending to be productive.

I glanced around. Most of the patrons were Danish men—tall, broad, jawlines like marble sculpture, and slicked-back hair straight out of cologne ads.

I looked at my reflection in the window.

Worn-out sweater.

Messy curls.

Jetlagged eye bags.

A very ugly duckling among Scandinavian swans.

When the real world is too bright, I dive into fiction.

I opened the draft folder of The Boss’s Forbidden Desire—

Age: 35. Height: 180 cm. Appears in chapter one, chapter two, then ... stuck in the plot.

Because obviously, compared to Danish men, my Nathaniel reads like a broke college guy who forgot to pay for his gym membership.

Nathaniel: lean but trained body—from hiking and archery, not 24/7 gym. Jet-black hair, always tidy, except for one rebellious strand. Always carries a leather journal. Young, mysterious CEO.

Actual Denmark: bodies like Viking ships—shoulders as wide as fjords, hands that could crush watermelons.

95% are blond or light brown, even the long-haired ones look like indie band members.

Style: black jackets, jeans, expensive sneakers that look effortlessly casual. When they smile? Straight-up IKEA ad.

"Hm ... Maybe I should revise Nathaniel’s description," I muttered.

"Or... add a twist that he’s a Danish-Indonesian adoptee?"

"Here you go!"

I nearly slammed my laptop shut.

A jumbo-sized burger landed on my table. Soft bun, thick patty, melty cheese, warm fragrant fries.

My will to live increased by 30%. Maybe 40% if there were a bottle of sambal—Indonesian chili sauce, my emotional support condiment!

I looked up. "T-tak for mad?"

My Danish thank-you—courtesy of a 3-minute Google crash course.

The server blinked, then laughed. "Det var så lidt! Enjoy your meal!"

I quickly picked up the burger and—chomp!

Heaven. I nearly cried.

The meat was juicy!

The cheese, melted and perfect!

And paired with a sip of hot chocolate—

Goodbye, rendang. We had a good run.

I regretted taking that nap earlier. I should’ve eaten hours ago!

I took another bite, eyes closed, savoring it like it was my last meal on earth.

My fingers wiped the corner of my eye—I wasn’t sure if it was tears of joy or the effects of not eating rice for two days.

Then—

My eyes slowly lifted, dragged up by the gravity of shame.

My mouth was still covered in cheese.

Oh no. Please don’t be—

That voice. That language I didn’t understand.

But that face—

The burger that once filled my soul now threatened my life.

I coughed.

Gagged.

Thumped my chest like I was exorcising a demon.

My eyes watered. My mouth messy.

I looked like a cat coughing up a hairball!

I shook my head frantically, waving my hands, patting my chest, trying to calm my panicked body.

"Sorry ... You don’t understand Danish.”

I could only nod—still wheezing, teary-eyed, and with a throat that felt like it had been torched with chili powder.

It was him.

MR. Louandre Lucien—the man I pointed at in my dream because of rendang!

But without a word, he handed me a bottle of mineral water.

"Did I startle you?"

His baritone voice was calm, deep. The condensation on the bottle seemed to tremble along.

"N-no! Not at all!"

Of course he startled me! He appeared out of nowhere—no footsteps, no shadow!

"Why are you eating here? Has the food not arrived yet?"

As soon as I could breathe, I grabbed a napkin. My hand still shook.

He was asking about the food delivery?

"I don’t know. I was just hungry."

The man in navy tilted his head. Thick eyebrows shadowed green eyes that could cut glass.

"I'll call the staff."

"No ... no, you don’t need to do that!"

Reflexively, I grabbed his sleeve—only to realize—my fingers were still coated in neon yellow cheese—on his clearly designer, not-of-this-world fabric.

And there it was—my fingerprint. In cheese.

A culinary crime scene.

"A-ah, I—I’m sorry!"

I tried to wipe the cheese off—

Which only made it worse.

The fabric was obviously expensive, and my hand just turned it into an abstract cheddar painting down his sleeve.

Then I felt something ... hard.

Not rough-hard. But hard-hard.

Muscle? Bicep?

Seriously?

My hand was still on him.

"Lort, stop touching me!"

I yanked my hands up like I’d been caught stealing.

Lou looked at his sleeve now decorated with cheesy fingerprints, his face unreadable—disgust? Amusement? Or ... murder?

I froze like a microwaved chicken nugget, unsure whether to breathe or apologize first.

"I ... I’ll pay for the dry cleaning!" I blurted, digging into my backpack—

I only had a few euros from the office. Credit card?

He narrowed his eyes, then—

"Ha!"

A short, dry laugh. Was that ... amusement?

"You're a mess," he said, switching to English, making even those simple words sound like a threat.

He grabbed a napkin from my table—gracefully, of course—and began wiping his sleeve.

His fingers were long, efficient, precise. Like a luxury detergent ad.

I could only stare—useless—as I realized just how different his wipe was from mine ...

Which looked more like a panicked cat clawing at a dusty rug.

"I'll pay for the dry cleaning!" I insisted, handing over my envelope of euros.

"No, I don’t need it."

Then the tall man turned and walked away from my table. Calmly. Too calmly. Like a system notification: "Error detected. Please ignore."

Just like that. No closure, no drama, no manual.

Turns out, he wasn’t alone—several men his age were seated by the door. All tall. All wearing black jackets.

Luxury watches that didn’t even tick.

Shoes polished to angelic levels.

They looked like high-end boutique mannequins that could kill.

I took a breath—finally realizing my fingers were still gripping that cash envelope too tight.

"Okay," I whispered.

I sat back down, trying to calm my breathing, only to notice a glob of cheese on the corner of my laptop.

"We’re meeting at the office tomorrow," I mumbled while wiping it.

"I'll replace his shirt. And ... tomorrow I’ll apologize—"

I froze.

Then swallowed hard.

"—apologize... to MR ... Louandre Lucien... CEO..."

My chair nearly tipped as I jumped up.

I’m dead. No—worse—buried!

Stupid!

Panic took over. I stood up, abandoning my burger, my hot chocolate, and my dignity.

I half-ran after him.

"Sir! Sir! I’m sorry!"

He only glanced over his shoulder, while his two companions turned to me fully—still sipping their beers.

"Sir, I ... I apologize. I’ve been a complete disaster today!"

My voice shook, nearly cracked. I gripped the hem of my sweater like it could unravel and swallow me whole.

I had to apologize! Today was a wreck! All my fault! I’m such an idiot!

But he didn’t even look at me.

His hand lifted—a short, sharp motion. Like shooing a fly.

O-okay.

I get it.

My chest ached.

I bit down on my lower lip, stepped back—shrinking like a stray dog doused with cold water.

I shouldn’t have come.

I was just a nuisance.

But before I could retreat fully, one of Lou’s friends—the one with the square jaw and dead museum-eyes—leaned in and whispered something in his ear.

Louandre froze.

The beer bottle stopped mid-air, inches from his lips.

Then, in a voice so flat it barely stirred the air, I heard it clearly—

Silence.

I could only bow my head, turn around, and return to my now-silent table.

The burger was cold.

The cheese no longer melted ... just like my self-confidence crumbling to the floor.

Tomorrow, I'll apologize.

Properly. At the office.

But for now?

I closed my laptop, chewed cold burger, and tried to swallow their laughter—

***