Afternoon sunlight spilled over the city’s glass buildings, scattering into flecks of gold.  

At exactly 2:20 p.m., Bix showed up at the same café, just like he always did.  

The barista already knew his routine—no questions asked, just a small smile and a cup of hot Americano handed over the counter.  

No delivery fee, no order, yet he treated every cup like it mattered.

He walked his usual route through the streets.  

The wind slipped through the seam of his delivery bag, carrying the faint smell of coffee.  

Sometimes he thought to himself—this wasn’t a bad life.  

One cup, two deliveries, no words exchanged, just a quiet kind of anticipation.  

Weeks passed that way.  

He hadn’t seen Lilia since that night at the bar.  

Every now and then, he’d leave ten minutes early,  

then stop at a crosswalk, wondering if he should go ahead and deliver sooner—  

just maybe, he’d run into her.  

But every time, he’d shake his head.  

*Forget it. She’s busy. She wouldn’t notice anyway.*

So he kept his ritual.  

7:52 in the morning, 2:20 in the afternoon—two points on his daily map that never changed.

Across the city, Lilia’s world had its own rhythm.  

The company was deep in several new investment deals—  

shareholders, executives, clients, meetings stacked back to back.  

Her days were buried under numbers and reports,  

and she barely thought about who brought her morning coffee anymore.  

She only knew it always arrived on time,  

as steady and reliable as breathing.

That morning seemed no different.  

She settled into the car, the driver pulling out onto the usual route.  

Traffic moved as it always did—until the sudden shriek of brakes cut through the hum.  

The driver frowned. “There’s been an accident up ahead, Director Quell. Should I take a detour?”  

“Go around,” she said without looking up, eyes still on her tablet screen, voice calm and even.

The car slowed, turning down another street.  

She glanced up just briefly—  

a small crowd had gathered at the corner, people craning their necks to see something.  

Then she looked back down, scrolling to the next page of numbers.

When she arrived at the office, the receptionist hurried over.  

“Good morning, Director. Um… your coffee hasn’t arrived yet.”  

Lilia paused, her brow tightening.  

“Hasn’t arrived?”  

“Maybe there was a delay on the way. I’ll go grab one right now.”  

“Alright. Go ahead.”

She didn’t think much of it—probably a late start, nothing more.  

Stacks of documents filled her desk again, dragging her attention back to meetings and projections.  

When the receptionist finally brought her a replacement Americano,  

Lilia took one sip and frowned.

“Where did you buy this?”  

“Uh, the chain place around the corner.”  

“I see… thanks.”  

She set the cup down. Didn’t touch it again.

Something about it was off.  

The bitterness was too sharp, the balance missing—not sugar, not milk,  

just the particular *rightness* she’d grown used to.  

Maybe it was her imagination.  

But she knew—it wasn’t *his* coffee.

Hours slid by.  

More meetings, more numbers, the same noise of work.  

By the time the afternoon came and her usual second Americano still hadn’t shown up,  she felt it—the city’s rhythm had faltered.  

Something small, almost invisible, was out of place.

She turned toward the window.  

The light was harsh, glaring off the glass towers.  

The familiar figure that always passed through the lobby around this time—  

was nowhere to be seen.