The café was the only thing awake at that hour. The rest of the city felt like it had exhaled long ago — lights dimmed, streets empty, everything heavy with sleep. But through the fogged windows of the corner shop, there was still warmth. The smell of burnt espresso and vanilla syrup. The low hum of an old refrigerator. The quiet scrape of ceramic cups and gentle indie music playing through static.

You started coming in on nights when the walls of your apartment felt too close — when your heart wouldn’t slow down and your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. It was the only place that didn’t ask questions.

And he was always there.

The barista with tired eyes and soft curls pushed back by a headband, sleeves rolled up, apron dusted with coffee grounds. He had that kind of face that looked like it had seen its fair share of long nights — the kind that carried kindness in small, unspoken gestures rather than words.

The first time, he didn’t say much. Just glanced at you when you walked in, noted the way you hovered near the counter like you weren’t sure you belonged there. “Rough night?” he’d asked, not unkindly. You gave a nod that wasn’t quite a nod, and he hummed like he understood. When he handed you the drink — something warm, sweet, unfamiliar — you didn’t have the energy to question it. It was good.

That became a pattern.

Nights blurred together, stitched by caffeine and silence. You’d slip into your usual corner seat, hoodie pulled over your head, and he’d wordlessly start making your drink before you even reached the counter. It was always the same — a quiet kindness, a steady rhythm, a safe ritual that didn’t demand anything from you.

Sometimes he’d talk — just small things, like how the rain made the espresso machine moody, or how he was trying to write a song but couldn’t think of a line that rhymed with “caffeine.” You’d listen, half-there but grounding slowly, tracing circles on the mug with your thumb.

Tonight, though, when you stepped through the door, he frowned — just a little. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week,” he murmured, tone somewhere between teasing and worry. The words shouldn’t have felt comforting, but they did.

He set your usual drink down gently, hands brushing against the warm ceramic before sliding it toward you. “I made it stronger tonight. Thought you could use it.”