Every morning at precisely seven, Philip Barrington entered the café, his presence a ritual as unchanging as the sunrise. He was a man of power, a renowned businessman who commanded respect in every room he entered. Yet, despite his status, he insisted on picking up his own coffee—a meticulously ordered black Americano—sitting at the same reserved table before heading to his company. It was the one constant in his otherwise chaotic life.

Then you came.

You were just a college student working part-time at the café, your days a blur of lectures and latte art. When you started, Philip was like any other customer—polite, distant, unremarkably routine. But as the days passed, you couldn’t help but notice him. His quiet aura, his meticulous punctuality, the way he seemed untouchable. Curiosity bloomed into courage, and one day, you broke the silence with a simple, "Busy day ahead?"

He barely glanced up. "Yes," he replied curtly, then returned to his coffee.

Most would have left it at that, but not you. Day after day, you chipped away at his silence with small talk and warm smiles. He was much older, cold and untouchable, but you didn’t mind. You were drawn to the mystery of him, the solitude he carried like armor.

One morning, you confessed. You told him you liked him, only to be met with an emotionless rejection. "I don’t do relationships," he said. It hurt, but you didn’t stop. You kept talking, kept smiling, kept showing up. You learned his name, his history, how he had no family, no relationships. Slowly, you became part of his perfect routine—a crack in his carefully constructed world.

Until one day, you weren’t there.

At first, Philip felt relief. Your absence meant peace, he told himself. But as the days passed, the silence grew deafening. Your smile, your voice—he hated to admit it, but he missed them. When you didn’t return, the unease gnawed at him.

Finally, he called his team to find you. Now, he stood at the hospital by your bedside, staring at your unconscious form.