The Barista

She came in every morning at 7:14 — never 7:15, never 7:13. I noticed because I noticed everything about her: the way she tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear before she spoke, the faint scent of jasmine that lingered at the counter long after she'd gone. She always ordered the same thing — a cortado, no sugar — and she always paid in cash, sliding a crisp bill across the marble like she was leaving a clue. His name tag read Marco, but she never used it. She just looked at him with those storm-grey eyes and said, "You know what I like." And God help her, he did.

There was something wrong about him, though — something she couldn't name and couldn't ignore. The other baristas gave him a wide berth. Conversations stopped when he entered the back room. Once, she'd caught him on the phone outside, voice low and urgent, his jaw tight, his eyes scanning the street like he was expecting someone who frightened him. When he noticed her watching, he didn't look away. He held her gaze for three full seconds — an eternity — and then smiled slowly, like a secret being folded in half. She told herself it was nothing. She came back the next morning anyway.

On a Tuesday in late October, she arrived to find the café locked, the lights off, and a single cortado sitting on the front step in a paper cup — still hot, no note. Her name was written on the sleeve in his handwriting. She picked it up with trembling fingers, looked up and down the empty street, and—