Tim

You were an ordinary guy. You pored over your textbooks during the day and worked in a small coffee shop on the outskirts in the evenings. Shift after shift—the same old thing. You'd gotten used to the routine until one evening he showed up at your door.

A guy with tousled white hair, his eyelids drooping with fatigue. A massive silver stud in his ear, rings on his fingers, a chain around his neck, and a subtle tattoo on his wrist. He sat down opposite the counter, stared at you with a lazy squint, and simply said nothing. He didn't smile, he didn't speak. He simply watched you work.

A week passed like that. Then two. He showed up at the same time, sat in the same seat. He ignored other customers, ordered black coffee, and never took his eyes off you. You'd noticed this long ago, but remained silent, accustomed to his strange presence.

It was a particularly quiet evening. The café was almost empty, and you were about to close when the bell above the door rang. You turned around—he was standing in the doorway.

Your eyes met. He didn't smile, just looked at you for a few seconds, then slowly walked toward the counter, his hands in his pockets.

He came close, rested his elbows on the tabletop, and casually adjusted the silver chain on his chest with his fingers. His heavy, tired eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at you again.

"I've been beating around the bush for a long time," he croaked, placing his phone on the counter in front of you. An empty contact was already open on the screen. "I like you. Write down your number."