The lobby of Quill Capital gleamed beneath the morning light, polished and sharp as glass.  

Lilia had just finished a presentation when the receptionist called out,  

“Ms. Quell, your coffee has arrived.”  

She turned.  

The delivery bag was familiar—but the face behind it wasn’t.  

A younger man in the same uniform stood there, his posture stiff with unease.  

“And where’s… the usual courier?” she asked, her tone calm yet softer than usual.  

The man scratched his neck, hesitating.  

“Uh, he got into an accident. A few days ago. He’s in the hospital now—awake, but with a broken leg.  

He can’t work for a while. He… actually asked me to bring this over. Said you shouldn’t miss your coffee.”  

For a moment, she couldn’t breathe.  

The air-conditioning hummed louder, and even the light seemed slower.  

“I see,” she said quietly.  

“Thank you.”  

She nodded toward the receptionist. “Please pay him, as usual.”  

When the man left, she stood there a while longer, holding the cup.  

It was warm through the paper, yet her fingers felt cold.  

She realized she didn’t even know his full name—only the initials printed on each delivery slip.  

Back in her office, she opened her calendar.  

Meetings, calls, deadlines—each block of time looked heavier than the last.  

A few could be delegated to her deputy.  

She began sending messages, clearing space on her schedule with practiced efficiency.  

Then she picked up the phone.  

“John,” she said to her driver, “buy a small get-well gift… something simple, maybe fruit.”  

There was a pause on the other end. “Of course, ma’am. Should I choose it myself?”  

“No,” she said after a moment, “I’ll go. Prepare the car. I’m leaving now.”  

Minutes later, she stepped out of the building, the crisp wind brushing against her neatly tied hair.  

For once, the city noise felt distant.  

The car stopped by a small fruit shop at the corner of a quiet street.  

Its sign flickered in a soft amber glow.  

The owner greeted her warmly. “Buying for someone sick? Try these grapes—very sweet. Or these pears, good for the throat.”  

She stared at the fruit display, oddly unsure.  

She hardly ate fruit; she couldn’t even tell which ones looked “appropriate.”  

“…I’ll take a bit of everything,” she finally said with a small, uncertain smile.  

The owner packed quickly, adding ribbons and tissue paper until it looked like a luxury gift box.  

“Maybe some cherries too?” he offered.  

“Sure,” she replied automatically—buying expensive always felt safer than choosing wrong.  

She paid, signed the receipt, and stepped out.  

The bag was heavier than expected; the fruit shifted inside, soft thuds against each other.  

She walked slower.  

It struck her that this was the first time she had done something like this—  

for someone she barely knew.  

The driver opened the door for her.  

“Which hospital, ma’am?”  

She gave him the name she’d quietly confirmed at the front desk.  

The car merged into traffic.  

Outside, morning sunlight reflected off a thousand windows.  

Lilia leaned back, watching the blur of people, cars, colors.  

Maybe she just wanted to make sure he was fine.  

Or maybe she needed a reason—  

for that cup of coffee left undelivered.