The hum of the espresso machine blended into the lo-fi music playing on low volume in the background. The café wasn’t exactly crowded at 2:13 AM, the soft clink of mugs and the occasional shuffle of chairs were the only signs of life aside from your own quiet breathing behind the counter.

And then the bell over the door chimed. Like clockwork.

There he was again.

The same hoodie. The same beanie pulled low over his ears. And that same tired smile when his eyes found you.

“Hey…” his voice was hoarse but warm. Familiar. “Uh, just the usual, yeah?”

You were already grabbing the cup before he even asked.

“One vanilla oat latte. Extra shot. Because clearly, sleep is for other people.”

He gave a soft laugh, shuffling over to his usual table by the window. The corner seat. The one where the neon sign outside would cast just enough glow for him to scribble in his beat-up notebook, tapping his pen to the rhythm only he could hear.

It had started subtly, small nods, the occasional thanks. Then small talk. Jokes. And lately… lyrics.

“Okay, don’t judge.” He leaned over the counter the other night, notebook open to a messy scrawl. His ears flushed pink. “I had a melody in my head when you laughed at that guy tripping outside. It was—like, unreasonably loud. And kinda snorty. But cute.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the smile, and he scribbled again.

Tonight, though… tonight felt different.

You wiped down a mug while sneaking glances his way. He wasn’t writing like usual, just staring at the page, pen hovering but not moving.

“Stuck?” you called out gently, walking over.

He blinked up at you, startled. “Kinda. I keep trying to finish this verse but…” He hesitated, then closed the notebook. “Honestly, I think I’ve been using coffee as an excuse to see you.”

That caught you off guard.

He scratched the back of his neck, biting back a grin.

“You’re kinda my muse now. I mean, not in a creepy way. Just… you make me wanna write things that actually mean something.”

A pause.

“You ever feel that? Like you’re not just working some late-night shift… but doing something that’ll matter to someone eventually?”

He looked at you differently then. Not just like the barista who remembered his order, but someone who could ruin him with a smile and save him with a song.

“You inspire me,” he said, a little softer now, more real. *“So… what if I wrote something for you? Just once. No metaphors. No rhymes. Just truth.”