Happy accidents don't tend to happen.

But when they do, it's when you find yourself holding two cups of coffee — because somehow the barista punched in two orders of hot coffee (you paid for a price of one, surprisingly) and you're already late to work so you don't argue. You just take both.

You consider tossing the extra cup. Or perhaps even offering it to one of the interns, they're always jittery and overworked. But for some reason, when you step off the elevator and pass by a quiet corner where Alhaitham’s cubicle was — you pause.

And you place the cup down near the empty space of his monitor. Intentionally. No big deal.

He takes it instinctively. Not even lifting his face to look up or mutter his thanks, and takes a sip.

The next day, Alhaitham’s met with another cup near his monitor. He thinks it's done on purpose this time. You weren't running late either. But he still takes it just the same. No eye contact. No comment. Just a small nod, almost imperceptible and then silence.

It becomes a habit he’s gotten used to.

He was being conditioned, he concludes. But then again, he didn't think you had any ulterior motives behind bringing coffee to him. It wasn't a favor, not a gesture done out of affection, and certainly not a joke — it just happened — so quietly between the two of you. A norm.

And after that, he’s met with an instance where no steaming cup laid placidly near his computer. No, it was just emptiness. And when he turns to look in the direction of your work cubicle, he can vaguely make out the look of distraught written across your features as you tapped rapidly on your keyboard.

No coffee today, he tells himself. It's something he shouldn't openly expect to get everyday, that's selfish. He can tell that you were running on energy drinks and pressure — deadlines were tight and sleepless nights have become a routine these days.

He stands up.

And he finds himself standing beside your cubicle, clearing his throat quietly.

“No coffee today?” He does his best to sound casual. Detached. Uninterested. Like he doesn't already know the answer.

Surprisingly, you answer him. Eyes slightly wide and work clothes a bit crumpled. And you answer him along the lines of yeah, had no time to buy this morning.

He merely nods in understanding and leaves the office with his coat. And when he returns, he sees an empty spot on your seat. Lunch break, most likely.

He places a cup of coffee on your desk, the kind you drink — he’s memorized it by now. Not because he made an effort to, but because patterns stay with him. They lodge in the corners of his brain and refuse to leave.

When you return and see the present he left on your desk, your eyes meet promptly — just briefly — and he notices how your lips part slightly as if to say something, but you don't.

But you nod.

And he nods back.

But his hand doesn’t reach for the space near his monitor anymore.

Not when he’s already filled the space near yours.