She didn't know his name, but his eyes lingered as if he already knew hers.
The next morning dawned gray and humid, the kind of weather that wrapped the city in a sluggish haze. Amara arrived at the café earlier than usual, her bag slung across her shoulder and her apron folded neatly under her arm. She unlocked the front door and inhaled the faint scent of roasted beans and pastries that clung stubbornly to the walls even after hours of silence. This café was more than just a place of work for her. It was her shield, her independence, the fragile dream she clung to despite the debts and disappointments.
By the time Grace arrived, the café was already open and a few early customers had trickled in. Amara moved between tables with practiced ease, balancing trays and steaming cups, her mind already filled with numbers and lists. Rent. Suppliers. Wages. Each thought weighed heavily, but she kept her smile in place.
The bell over the door chimed again, and her heart gave an odd lurch before her eyes even lifted. She knew it was him before she saw him. The stranger from yesterday.
He walked in wearing the same kind of simple clothes, jeans and a plain shirt, but his presence seemed to shift the air. His hair was neater today, though still carelessly tousled, and his expression was calm, almost unreadable. Yet when his gaze found hers, something in his eyes flickered, a recognition that made her pulse trip.
He approached the counter without hesitation.
"Coffee. Black. Please." His voice was steady, warm, like yesterday had never ended.
Amara blinked, caught off guard by the familiar order, and reached for a cup. "You again."
"You sound disappointed," he said lightly.
"Not disappointed," she replied quickly, though her lips curved despite herself. "Surprised. Most of our customers don't come back two days in a row unless they are addicted to sugar and cream."
His mouth lifted at the corner. "Maybe I like it simple."
She shot him a look over her shoulder as she prepared the coffee. "Simple is usually not enough for most people."
"Maybe most people don't know what they want," he countered, his tone almost teasing.
Amara placed the cup on the counter and slid it toward him. "And you do?"
He held her gaze as he took the cup. "Sometimes."
Her chest tightened. She did not know why this stranger unsettled her so much. He had no airs of superiority, no arrogance in his voice, no gleaming jewelry to announce his worth. He was ordinary, and yet the way he looked at her made her feel anything but ordinary.
"Do you ever sit?" he asked suddenly.
Amara blinked. "Sit?"
"Yes. Do you ever sit down, or are you always running back and forth like this?"
She laughed, shaking her head. "If I sat down every time a customer asked, nothing in this place would get done."
"Then maybe just once," he said, lifting his coffee. "Sit with me. Five minutes."
Amara hesitated. She rarely entertained conversation beyond polite exchanges. She had no time for small talk, and certainly no interest in strange men who wandered into her life. But something about the way he asked, without expectation, without the smug confidence she hated in wealthy customers, made her pause.
Grace appeared beside her, sliding a tray of pastries onto the counter. Her eyes darted between Amara and the man, and her lips curved mischievously.
"I can cover the counter for five minutes," Grace said innocently.
Amara narrowed her eyes at her, but Grace only shrugged.
With a reluctant sigh, Amara untied her apron and followed the stranger to a small corner table. He sat across from her, cradling his cup, his eyes fixed on her as if studying a puzzle.
"I'm Adrian," he said simply.
She raised a brow. "So you do have a name."
He chuckled. "And you are?"
"Amara."
"Amara," he repeated slowly, as though testing the shape of the word on his tongue. Something in the way he said it made her shiver.
They sat in silence for a moment, the noise of the café filling the space around them. Amara tapped her fingers against the table, unsure why she had agreed to this. She did not even know this man.
"What do you do?" she asked finally.
He tilted his head slightly. "This and that. Work comes and goes."
"That's vague," she said, frowning.
"Maybe I like vague."
She studied him, unconvinced. "You don't look like someone who drifts from job to job."
He smiled faintly. "And what do I look like?"
Amara hesitated. She wanted to say he looked like someone out of place in worn jeans, someone whose eyes carried more weight than his casual demeanor suggested. But she shook her head. "I don't know. You're hard to read."
"Good," he said softly, almost to himself.
They talked a little longer, mostly small things, coffee preferences, the weather, the ridiculous behavior of certain customers. Amara found herself laughing more than she expected, the tension in her chest easing. Adrian listened intently, never interrupting, his gaze steady but never overbearing. It was disarming.
Eventually, she stood, tying her apron back on. "Break's over. Some of us actually have to work."
Adrian smiled. "I'll be back tomorrow then."
She rolled her eyes. "Do you plan to make this a habit?"
"Maybe," he said, and his tone was so calm that it unsettled her again.
When he left, Amara watched from behind the counter as he stepped outside. A sleek black car waited at the curb, its tinted windows gleaming under the dull sky. A driver in a crisp suit stepped out and opened the door.
Amara's eyes narrowed. Ordinary men did not have drivers.
Adrian paused, noticing her gaze through the café window. For a moment, their eyes locked again, and something unreadable flickered across his face. He said something low to the driver, who nodded. Then the driver bowed slightly and murmured, "Of course, sir."
The word carried through the faint crack of the window, sharp and undeniable.
Amara stiffened. Her heart thudded painfully. Sir. People with drivers were never ordinary.
Adrian slid into the car quickly, his jaw tense, as if he realized what had happened. The vehicle pulled away, leaving Amara rooted to the spot behind the counter.
Her thoughts spiraled. She had let her guard down. She had laughed with him. She had sat across from him like he was just a man drinking coffee. But men with chauffeurs were never just men. They belonged to the world she despised, the world that had destroyed her family, the world of lies dressed in expensive suits.
She clenched her fists, anger and confusion battling in her chest. Who was Adrian really? And why did his eyes still linger in her mind even as everything about him screamed that she should hate him?