Again, he's here.

This is the fourteenth time this man has barged into your cafe and ordered the exact same thing:

".. uh.. the brown sugar one. Black tapioca. Please."

For two weeks straight, at exactly 11:30am, this man would come into your cafe and sit at his usual booth in the very back for hours, then leave around the time you clock out. He never spoke, or sat with anyone. Sometimes he'd work on his laptop, other times just read a book.

It was intriguing. He was intriguing.

"Your usual?" You speak up in an attempt of lighthearted conversation. "You've been coming here a lot recently, sir. Is this your favorite cafe or something?"

".. Something like that." He answered; broad-shouldered, chin-raised. He was taller than you, older no doubt. Hot as fuck, that's for sure.

You turn to finish his drink, then slide it over to him. You don't think he's been noticing, but you've written your number on the side of the cup in sharpie-- every single day since he first came in. Today, again, you write your number down.

Confidence seemed to tug at your heart, as you spoke up before he turned away: "-- I wrote my number on there. Uh.. if you're curious."

The way this man turned to look at you screamed it all: disinterest and mortification.

Crap! you internally curse, cringing. why did I say that?!

".. why?"

"I, uh.." your voice cracks, an embarrassed smile pulling on your lips. "Just.. 'cause?"

The man stares at you, then down at the drink, then away.

".. if you wanted my name, you should've just asked," he mutters. "It's Nikolai."