It was a slow Thursday afternoon.
A rare kind of calm settled over the café. The lunch rush had come and gone, and now the place hummed with soft jazz from the overhead speakers. A couple of students typed away at their laptops, a businessman read the paper, and Ayla stood behind the counter, gently steaming milk for a caramel macchiato.
Her movements were automatic—pour, swirl, tap.
But her mind?
Still very much tangled in everything that had happened four nights ago.
She hadn't seen Leonardo since.
No late-night knock. No call. No note.
Just silence.
And yet, his presence still lingered like the scent of strong espresso—impossible to ignore.
She thought about his words.
You make me feel human again.
Ayla had replayed that line too many times. Not because it was romantic, exactly, but because it had felt so raw. So unlike the man who had walked into her café the first time, all edges and unreadable shadows.
Maybe he meant it. Maybe he didn't.
She wasn't sure which scared her more.
"Earth to Ayla," Mark called from the kitchen doorway. "That milk's about to boil into another dimension."
"Oh—crap!" She yanked the pitcher off the steamer just in time.
Mark laughed. "You okay?"
"Yeah, just... tired."
"Uh-huh. Is 'tired' his name now?"
She rolled her eyes. "Not everything is about a guy."
"Says the girl who's been moodier than a telenovela protagonist ever since tall, dark, and wounded disappeared."
Ayla shot him a look. "Mark."
"Fine, fine." He held up his hands. "I'm just saying, if the mysterious hot guy ever comes back, at least make him pay emotional damages."
"I'll charge him extra," she muttered.
---
It was almost evening when it happened.
The bell above the door chimed softly. Ayla glanced up, expecting a regular.
But it was him.
Leonardo.
Not bleeding. Not bruised. Not soaking wet from a storm.
Just... standing there. In a dark navy coat, hair slightly tousled, and eyes quietly searching for hers.
Her heart stuttered.
He walked up to the counter slowly, like he wasn't sure if he was welcome.
She didn't say anything.
She just met his gaze.
And smiled—small, cautious, but real.
"What can I get you?" she asked, voice steady.
His lips twitched. "Black coffee. Extra bitter."
She turned to the machine. "Back to pretending you're normal?"
"Trying to blend in."
When she handed him the cup, their fingers brushed. Just slightly.
And for a second, it felt like a secret passed between them.
---
They didn't speak for another twenty minutes.
He took the corner booth again. Same spot. But this time, she didn't wait for closing. She brought over a second mug—decaf tea—and slid into the seat across from him.
"I thought you said you wouldn't come back like this," she said.
"I didn't." He lifted his shirt slightly, showing unblemished skin. "No bruises. No drama."
"No bleeding?"
"Not today."
"Progress," she murmured.
They sat in silence. But it wasn't uncomfortable.
There was something almost... gentle about this moment. Like they were both pretending—just for a little while—that this was all normal. That he wasn't a man with blood on his hands and she wasn't a barista tangled in something far beyond her world.
He glanced out the window. The city lights were beginning to glow. People rushed by in coats and heels and headphones. So much noise, out there. So much life.
"I forgot what this feels like," he said softly.
"What?"
"This. Sitting across from someone. Talking. Drinking something warm that doesn't taste like regret."
Ayla smiled faintly. "You sound like someone who's been alone a long time."
"I have."
"Why?"
He met her eyes. "Because everything I touch turns dangerous."
She didn't look away.
"Then maybe you need to start touching better things," she said quietly.
His expression shifted—just for a second. Something softened in his features, like her words had found a crack and slipped through.
"You always say things like that?" he asked. "Like you're trying to fix broken things."
"I work in customer service," she said, sipping her tea. "It's basically my job."
He laughed—an actual, warm, human laugh—and Ayla felt it in her chest like sunlight.
---
"Tell me something real," she said after a moment.
"What?"
"Something true. Not cryptic. Not dark. Just... real."
He thought for a moment, then leaned forward, forearms on the table.
"I hate mint," he said.
Ayla blinked. "Mint?"
"Yeah. Toothpaste, gum, candies. Hate all of it."
She raised an eyebrow. "That's your deep confession?"
"You asked for something real."
She shook her head, smiling. "Alright, your turn."
He narrowed his eyes, playfully. "You like asking dangerous men personal questions. That's real."
"Not a fact."
"You keep coming back."
"I work here."
He chuckled again. "Okay. My turn."
He looked at her for a long second. Then:
"Why do you stay here, Ayla?"
"In the café?"
"In this life. In this place. You're smart. I can tell. You could be somewhere else."
She looked down at her mug.
"I don't know. Maybe I'm afraid to leave something safe. Or maybe I'm waiting for something to change."
"Like what?"
She looked up.
And said nothing.
Because part of her was afraid the answer... was him.
---
They stayed like that until the sky turned indigo and the café slowly emptied out.
At one point, Mark passed by, raising an eyebrow and mouthing You good? Ayla waved him off.
When it was time to close, Leonardo stood, helping her stack chairs.
"You don't have to," she said.
"I want to."
They moved in quiet rhythm. She wiped down counters, he locked the front. For a moment, he looked almost ordinary. Like this was his world, too.
She locked the last cabinet, turned—and almost bumped into him.
He was closer than she realized.
And she didn't step back.
His voice was soft. "Can I walk you home?"
"I live three blocks away."
"I know."
She tilted her head. "Been following me?"
"Just making sure you're safe."
A beat of silence.
Then she said: "Okay."
---
They walked in silence, side by side. The city buzzed around them, taxis honking, neon signs flickering. But between them, everything felt still.
At her apartment door, she turned to him.
"Well," she said. "Here we are."
He looked up at the old brick building, then back at her.
"I don't usually do this."
"Walk girls home?"
"No."
He paused.
"Let anyone in."
She swallowed. "I don't usually let anyone walk me home either."
"Then we're both breaking rules."
Ayla smiled.
He started to step back—but she reached out, fingers catching his sleeve.
"I'm glad you came back," she whispered.
He looked at her hand. Then at her.
And his voice, when he spoke, was low.
Sincere.
Dangerously honest.
"So am I."