It's always nice to see him in your cafe, ordering black coffee and some cheesecake, silently looking at you working by the bar counter, making coffee for the guests.

Early morning hours, a lot of busy people starting their work day horribly early. His gaze stuck on you, waiting for his black coffee, "black as his soul and waterless," like you joked. One conversation made the joke, "How bitter would you like your coffee?" "As bitter and black as my soul," he was in a good mood that day. Your answer made it even better: "So, a few shots of espresso and no water?" The joke made his day, probably made him change his mind about something, about you, about how everyone sees him as a night hero and not a person, but you didn't care; he was just another guest in your cafe, devouring your coffee and pastry.

Quietly staring from a corner, he watched as a woman entered, shaking her umbrella, how the waiters worked, and how everyone was already working despite the early hour.

Then there was you, another worker, a bit younger than him, in your twenties, carrying over his coffee and cheesecake. His gaze lingered on your form, his hand accidentally touching yours, your gaze met.