Listen to dynamite by tyla ft wizkid
The rain outside had not let up since noon. It wasn't the kind that came in violent sheets or with thunder that rattled windows—it was softer, steadier, persistent, like a rhythm the city could not ignore. People huddled under awnings, umbrellas bloomed like dark flowers along the sidewalk, and every café in the district seemed to have doubled its customers.
Inside Café Amber, warmth clung to the air—freshly ground beans, steamed milk, pastries laced with cinnamon. The sound system hummed a mellow playlist, and right then, "Dynamite" by Tyla ft. Wizkid drifted in, the bass low and sultry, the lyrics a silky undercurrent to the steady drizzle outside.
Maya stirred the foam of her latte with the little wooden stick, watching it collapse into the swirl of milky brown. Her fingers curled around the warm cup as though drawing courage from it. Rain always did this to her—made her reflective, a little softer, almost vulnerable. She glanced once toward the fogged glass windows, then back at the man across from her.
Daniel.
She hadn't expected company. When she ducked into the café fifteen minutes ago, damp hair sticking to her cheekbones, he had been the one to offer her the seat opposite his. "You'll be standing otherwise," he had said, voice smooth, calm, leaving her little room to argue. And somehow, she hadn't minded.
Now, he leaned back in his chair, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. There was an intensity to the way he looked at her—calculated yet not unkind, deliberate yet unreadable.
For a moment, the café noise seemed to fade. The murmur of other conversations, the hiss of the espresso machine, the rustle of pages from someone's book—all of it dimmed under the weight of his gaze. Maya tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly too aware of herself.
He broke the silence first. "So," Daniel began, his voice smooth and unhurried, "do you always take refuge in cafés when it rains, or was today a coincidence?"
Maya laughed softly, startled by the warmth in his tone. Her laughter felt like steam rising from her cup, light and unguarded. "A bit of both, I guess. I like how cafés feel when it rains. Like the world slows down for a while."
Daniel's lips curved in the faintest smile. "That's an interesting way to put it. Most people just complain about the weather."
"I complain too," Maya admitted, shrugging. "But at least coffee makes it bearable."
That earned her a low chuckle from him, a sound that vibrated through the quiet corner they shared. Something about the way he laughed—not too loud, not forced, just genuine—made her glance at him properly this time.
Polished. That was the word. His shirt, though casual, was pressed without a crease. His watch gleamed discreetly, not flashy but certainly not cheap. Even the way he carried himself—still, composed, assured—felt like it belonged to someone who had little reason to rush or stumble.
Definitely not the kind of man who simply wandered into this tucked-away café by chance.
"What about you?" she asked, curiosity slipping through her words. "Do you come here often?"
"Sometimes," he replied, tone careful. "It's quieter than most places."
That fit him, she thought. Quiet. Reserved. Like a man who carried whole stories but told none of them.
She raised her cup to her lips, took a careful sip, and let the latte warm her from the inside. After a beat, she asked, "So what do you do? If you don't mind me asking."
Daniel's eyes lingered on hers a second too long. That pause—heavy, deliberate—sent a ripple of something through her chest. He was choosing his words with care, she realized.
"I work in management," he said finally, voice even. True. But not the whole truth.
"Management," Maya repeated, tilting her head slightly. "Sounds… important."
He gave the faintest shrug. "Depends on who you ask."
His evasiveness made her smile. "Well, I just started a new job myself. Still figuring things out, but it's exciting."
Daniel felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Exciting. She didn't know that he already knew where she worked. He knew her role, her salary, even the small scrawl of her signature on HR forms. The irony of hearing her say it, unaware, almost made him laugh.
"That's good," he said instead, suppressing the smile. "New beginnings can be… transformative."
Maya leaned forward slightly, warming to the conversation. "I hope so. I haven't even met my boss yet, which is a little nerve-wracking. Everyone talks about him like he's some kind of legend."
Her words sparked amusement in him. His composure remained intact, but inside, he felt the twist of irony.
"A legend, huh?" he echoed lightly. "That's a lot of pressure for one person."
"Tell me about it." She rolled her eyes playfully. "I keep wondering what he's like. Strict? Distant? Or maybe one of those charming types who pretends to be friendly but is secretly impossible to please."
Daniel allowed himself a small, carefully measured smile. "Maybe he's just human. A little of everything."
"I'll believe it when I see it," she said, laughing again.
Her laugh—it wasn't loud, but it lit her face. Daniel found himself watching her more than he should, cataloging details: the way her eyes crinkled slightly when she smiled, the nervous energy that faded the longer they spoke, the soft warmth in her voice when she was relaxed.
Around them, the café swelled with new arrivals, the hum of conversation layering over the song still playing in the background. "Dynamite" pulsed faintly, its rhythm weaving with the storm outside, and for a moment Daniel thought the scene almost too fitting—intimate, warm, yet hiding an undercurrent neither of them was naming.
Maya's phone buzzed faintly on the table. She glanced at it, then back at him, lips pressing together. "I should probably head home soon. Big day tomorrow."
Daniel raised an eyebrow. "First week nerves?"
"Exactly." She sighed. "I don't want to make a bad impression."
"You'll be fine." His voice was firmer this time, carrying a certainty that surprised even her. "First impressions aren't always everything. Sometimes it's what comes after that matters most."
Maya tilted her head, studying him now. "You sound like you speak from experience."
"Maybe I do," he said, gaze steady.
For a fleeting second, her intuition sparked—like there was something beneath his words she wasn't quite grasping. But before she could press, he glanced at his watch, the motion crisp.
"You should go," he said gently. "The rain's easing. No sense in being late tomorrow."
Her brows lifted slightly. How could he know timeliness was the very thing she obsessed over? She let the thought slip, brushing it off as coincidence.
"Right." She stood, gathering her things. "Thanks—for the company."
He nodded once, then, softer: "Maya?"
She paused, surprised he'd remembered her name. "Yes?"
"Trust yourself." His voice was quiet, but it carried weight. "You'll do just fine."
The words warmed her chest unexpectedly. She smiled, shy but genuine. "I'll try."
With that, she slipped out into the drizzle, the rain now a soft tapping on the pavement.
Daniel remained seated, eyes fixed on the door long after it closed behind her. A part of him wondered if this charade—letting her meet him like this, as a stranger—was a mistake. But another part, selfish and curious, wasn't ready to let go.
For now, he decided, she would only
know him as the man she met in a café on a rainy day, while "Dynamite" hummed low in the background.