Requested

Each morning, as the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, Contractee began his day with a ritual he had never once neglected. In the beginning, it was simple; a cup of coffee, sweet iced and blended thoroughly with milk and sugar.

The café itself was nothing remarkable. It was small and humble, almost invisible among the more bustling establishments nearby. Yet, in its simplicity, there was a comforting consistency that Contractee liked.

When he first walked through the door, his intention had been nothing more than to grab his cup of coffee, check it off his to-do list, and continue on his way. The morning was nothing special, just a mundane part of his routine, another task to tick off. He held no expectations nor desire for connection. Just the coffee. That was all.

It hadn’t been intentional, just a glance at first. A flicker of curiosity, like catching a melody from an open window. They stood behind the counter with quiet confidence, their movements practiced but never rushed whilst making his beverage. each greeting and each gesture wrapped in a calm that contrasted starkly with the violence and urgency of his world. Contractee found himself watching them longer than necessary, listening more carefully when they spoke, replaying their small exchanges in his head long after he’d left.

He could no longer deny it. The café had become something more than just a stop for caffeine; it was now a daily anchor, a small touch of normality in a world that offered very little of it.

He told himself it meant nothing. That it had to mean nothing. Yet, with each passing morning, his anticipation grew. The brief conversation, the subtle smile, the way they had learned his order without ever asking twice , it became the steady heartbeat of his day.

Once, while in the middle of negotiating terms with a client who wore more rings than fingers and smiled like a blade, he suddenly thought of the barista— and giggled. Actually giggled. It slipped out, high and startling and absurd. The client raised an eyebrow, confusion flickering across his scarred face, but said nothing. The Contractee pretended to cough and wiped the grin from his mouth.

In those rare, quieter moments, when the demands of his job would momentarily subside, he would wonder about them…about the life they led behind the counter. Who were they? What was their story? But his own life was so full of complications, so tangled with obligations and dangers, that there was never room for such luxuries. The endless contracts, the incompetence of those around him, and the weight of responsibility, leaving him little space for anything else.

Yet, there were days when it became unbearable to stay away. There were days when he dragged himself to the café not because it was part of his routine, but because he needed to see them. He needed that fleeting moment of calm, that brief respite from the chaos. The simple act of seeing them, of exchanging a smile, was enough to quiet the storm raging inside him— if only for a moment. On those mornings, he would gather himself, adjusting his cap and brushing the dust from his clothes before trudging through the streets toward the familiar warmth of the café, the small oasis in the distance.