The music had slowed to a low, heavy rhythm—something that moved like a river beneath the noise.  

Light from the bar glowed against the glasses, turning every reflection into a soft, unreal kind of warmth.

Bix’s delivery buddies were still camped out in the corner, waging a hopeless war of small talk.  

One pretended to know wine, another kept trying out bad jokes.  

All they earned were polite smiles and a few mercy laughs.  

Eventually, they gave up, slouching in their chairs, watching the bar counter with envy—  

their least remarkable friend, of all people, was drinking with a woman who looked like she’d stepped straight out of another world.

Bix could feel their stares, but he ignored them.  

He only glanced down now and then, turning his glass in slow circles.  

It was already 1:30 a.m.  

If he didn’t leave soon, he’d be yawning through deliveries by morning.

He was about to excuse himself when Lilia set her glass down.  

Her tone was even, deliberate.  

“I’m glad I met you tonight.”  

Then, with a faint smile: “Next Monday, when I’m back at work—remember my coffee.”

For a second, his brain short-circuited.  

“Oh—yeah. One hot Americano,” he said, smiling awkwardly, as if answering a pop quiz.

Lilia nodded once, slipped on her coat, and walked out—each step crisp, unhurried.  

Her silhouette disappeared into the doorway light, leaving only a chair that still held a trace of her warmth.

Bix sat there for a few seconds before returning to his friends.  

“Man, what was that?” Ryan slapped his shoulder. “Who *is* she? Looks expensive.”  

“Yeah, I tried talking to the table next to hers. Didn’t even get eye contact,” another chimed in.  

“—And she *bought you a drink*!” someone added, dragging out the words.

Bix laughed awkwardly. “Come on, it was just a conversation.”  

“Just a conversation? We’ve been striking out all night!” Ryan raised his empty glass in defeat.  

“We spent half our paychecks trying. Guess I’ll be living off instant noodles if I don’t run extra routes this week.”

The table groaned in unison, as if every drink equaled a few kilometers of delivery debt.  

They joked, complained, clinked glasses again.  

Bix smiled with them—but his mind was somewhere else entirely.

He was already planning.  

Tomorrow morning, he’d stop by the same café and talk to the barista.  

Seven-fifty... no, seven-fifty-two sounded right.  

That way, the Americano would still be warm when he got to Lilia’s building at eight sharp.  

Not too hot, not too cool.  

Then maybe another delivery around two-twenty in the afternoon—  

she’d probably be done with meetings by then, maybe tired enough to need a second cup.  

He grinned to himself. *If she remembers me at all, even just as “the coffee guy,” that’s enough.*

While his friends debated who owed what for the tab, Bix stared at his phone.  

The map app glowed faintly, delivery routes crossing like tangled veins—tomorrow already taking shape in light.

Across the city, Lilia returned to her apartment.  

The skyline outside was a cold white blur, the windows sealing her off from the city’s hum.  

She let her hair down and spread a stack of client reports across her desk.  

The lamp light hit the papers, and her furrowed brow.

She kept reading, pen moving across the margins, until something made her pause—  

the memory of that delivery guy,  

his ridiculous story about fried chicken and ice cubes.  

She remembered the line—“I could hear the rattling the whole way”—and felt the corner of her mouth move, just slightly.  

Not quite a smile, but close enough.

The scent of black coffee drifted through the room as she reheated another cup.  

Steam rose, curling into the pale fog outside.  

Two people, miles apart, each caught in their own routines—  

and without realizing it, both had just found a small reason to look forward to the morning.