Time rewound to that instant.  

The traffic light flickered red, and the air at the intersection smelled of exhaust, burnt rubber—and coffee.  

Bix pedaled through the crosswalk, one hand steady on the handlebars, the other guarding the delivery bag.  

Inside, a cup of hot Americano was still steaming.

Out of nowhere, a cyclist shot across the street.  

Bix swerved left on instinct.  

“Jesus—what the hell—” he started, but before the words finished, a flash of silver filled his right side.  

Headlights. Too bright to see anything at all.

His thoughts scattered into panic.  

*What’s this car doing—don’t, don’t come closer—*  

*I still have something to do, I still have to deliver—don’t—*  

—**Bang.**

The world cracked open.  

The cup flew out of the bag, coffee arcing through the air in a dark brown ribbon before splattering across cold asphalt.  

Shouts. The slam of a car door. The smell of burned rubber.  

Everything blurred, fading as his consciousness slipped away.

Then—nothing but the distant wail of an ambulance.  

He was rushed to the nearest hospital, where the city carried on without him.  

And Bix sank into silence.

⋯⋯

The next few days, Lilia’s desk still had coffee beside it—just not *his*.  

On the first morning, the receptionist said, “The delivery guy didn’t show up today. I’ll go grab one for you.”  

Lilia nodded, unconcerned.  

By the second day, the cup was late again, and a faint unease began to form.  

On the third, she took a sip of the replacement Americano and frowned.  

The taste was bitter, but the warmth wasn’t *right*—  

missing that particular balance she’d never thought to name.

She’d grown used to it.  

Not the coffee itself, but the rhythm of it.  

That quiet, punctual presence that asked for nothing.

She picked up her phone, scrolling to a contact with no message history.  

On the screen, his name: **Bix K.**  

She typed, *Not delivering coffee lately?*  

The cursor blinked a few times.  

Then she deleted the words, one by one.

It had been a joke that night, she thought.  

He was never supposed to take it seriously.  

He never charged her delivery fees, yet he came—every day, on time.  

That kind of persistence made her feel something she couldn’t quite name—  

irritation, maybe. Or guilt.

She set the phone down.  

Moments later, the office phone rang.  

She answered. The receptionist’s voice came through.

“Director, there’s a delivery guy here with your coffee.”

Lilia hesitated, her tone calm. “Alright. Thank you.”  

She hung up, straightened a few papers, and stepped out of her office.  

Her heels clicked softly against the carpet.  

No particular emotion in her chest—just an automatic expectation.  

He must’ve come back.

But when she reached the front desk, she stopped short.  

It wasn’t Bix.  

It was one of his delivery friends, standing there with the same worn-out delivery bag in his arms.  

He looked up, uneasy, his lips parting as if searching for the right words.