Sofía
Café Azul – Madrid, Spain
The bell above the door chimed softly once, then twice a gentle sound barely noticeable beneath the hum of the espresso machine. Sofía wiped her hands on her apron and glanced toward the entrance, expecting another regular.
But it wasn't Don Luis, the retired professor who always asked for café con leche and flirted harmlessly with her abuela.
No.
The man who stepped into the café was something else entirely.
He was tall. Sharp. Wrapped in a tailored black coat with a collar turned up against the cold. The rain hadn't touched him. His shoes were polished. His eyes God dark and unreadable.
She froze for a second, her hand clutching the damp rag, fingers tightening without realizing.
He looked around once. Slowly. Like he owned the walls, the air, the breath in her lungs.
Then he walked to the counter.
And said nothing.
"¿Buenas tardes…?" she offered softly, unsure why her voice came out like a whisper.
His gaze slid to hers. Just a flicker. And for one dizzy moment, it was like being pulled underwater pressure in her ears, chest tight, heart hammering far too loud for such a quiet space.
He didn't smile. He just looked.
Then spoke. "Un café solo. Sin azúcar."
His voice was low. Gravel and silk. No accent she could place, but his Spanish was perfect. Too perfect. Like he'd learned it not from family, but from needing to speak it to kill someone.
Sofía turned away quickly, hands fumbling with the espresso handle. Her cheeks burned. She hated how they did that turned pink whenever she felt watched. She wasn't used to it. Most people ignored her. Even the boys at school, except for Tomás who liked to call her la calladita just to make her blush.
She wasn't sure what made her feel smaller his silence, or the way his eyes followed her without blinking.
She placed the tiny porcelain cup on the counter, careful not to spill. "Aquí tiene."
His hand brushed hers. Not on purpose. Not even for long.
But long enough to leave a mark.
"Gracias," he murmured, barely audible.
She nodded, stepping back.
He sat at the corner table. Alone. Facing the window. But he didn't drink the coffee.
He didn't do anything.
Just sat there like he was waiting for something. Or watching something she couldn't see.
Ten minutes passed. Maybe fifteen. The café stayed quiet. Only one other customer, an old woman knitting near the back.
But every time Sofía glanced up, he was still there. Still watching. Not the street. Not the people.
Her.
Her breath caught in her throat when their eyes met again. This time she didn't look away. Couldn't. Something in her chest pulled taut. Her skin felt tight over her bones. She gripped the counter just to keep from trembling.
And he smirked.
It was small. Barely there. But it made her heart stumble.
"¿Todo bien?" came a voice behind her Abuela, returning from the kitchen.
Sofía jumped slightly. "Sí, sí. Todo bien."
The man stood.
She looked up just as he placed a crisp fifty-euro bill on the counter too much for one coffee. Before she could open her mouth to protest, he was already moving toward the door.
"Gracias, señor," she managed.
He paused. Looked at her one last time.
And smiled.
But it wasn't kind.
It was… something else. Like he'd just decided something.
Then he was gone.
The bell above the door rang again.
Twice.
She stood there long after he'd left, fingers still curled around the edge of the counter, breath shallow. She didn't know his name. Didn't know where he came from.
But somehow, she knew deep in her bones that today had changed something.
And he'd be back.
Sofía tried to return to work, but her fingers betrayed her. She dropped a cup, spilled milk, nearly burned the crema on the espresso.
Focus, she told herself. He's gone. He's just a man.
But her body didn't believe her.
Even after Abuela scolded her lightly "Tu cabeza está en las nubes, niña" she couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, even in his absence. Her skin prickled. Her heart thudded.
What kind of man looked like that? Moved like that? Spoke like he'd swallowed secrets and war?
She didn't know him. But somehow, it felt like he already knew her.
That night, she walked home under a dusky orange sky, hands in her coat pockets, scarf wrapped high on her neck. Her grandmother walked ahead, keys jingling in her hand, muttering about bills and bread.
Sofía didn't speak. Her mind was still in the café.
His face, those eyes they replayed behind her lids every time she blinked. A stranger. But not really.
He looked like a villain in a story. The kind that shouldn't be beautiful. But was.
When she lay in bed later, curled beneath her floral sheets, she wrote about him.
In the tiny leather notebook she kept under her pillow.
He didn't smile like other men.
He smiled like he was remembering something dangerous.
And I think he saw right through me.
She closed the notebook before she could write more. Her hands were shaking.
The next morning, she told herself it was silly. He wouldn't come back. People like him didn't come back.
But when she stepped into Café Azul and saw the same table empty, waiting her stomach flipped.
Time passed. No one. Just regulars. The usual smell of coffee, of cinnamon, of clean tiles.
By noon, she let herself relax.
But at 12:47 p.m., the doorbell rang once.
Then twice.
He returned.
Wearing black again. Different jacket. No umbrella. Just rain streaking the shoulders of his coat, hair slightly damp, eyes unreadable.
He walked in like he owned the day.
She tried to stay calm. Look busy. Fold napkins. Anything.
But her heart gave her away.
He stopped in front of the counter and said nothing for a full three seconds. Then:
"Café solo. Again."
Her hands moved on their own, remembering his order. She didn't dare meet his eyes. Not fully. Not yet.
"You remembered," he said quietly.
His voice made her skin flush, even though his words weren't unusual. It wasn't what he said. It was how like he was testing her, marking her reaction.
She handed him the cup, fingers brushing his again.
This time, it wasn't an accident.
"You always come here?" he asked.
She blinked. "I I work here."
"I see that."
He didn't smile this time. But he looked… pleased.
"What's your name?" he asked.
Her breath hitched. "Sofía."
He nodded once. "Pretty."
That single word did more damage than any poem she'd ever written. She stepped back quickly, cheeks blazing, heart thudding. Her grandmother emerged from the back just then, and he walked away, again taking the same corner table.
He stayed longer this time.
She felt him watching her. She pretended not to notice. But her whole body knew where he was. How still he sat. How quiet. Like a storm, waiting.
He left after twenty minutes. Paid in silence. Another fifty-euro bill. Another lingering glance.
And just before walking out the door, he said one thing soft, dark, and dangerous:
"I'll see you tomorrow, Sofía."
She didn't sleep that night.