Irene felt the air leave her lungs.
She turned, her heart beating frantically and unevenly against her ribs.
She was utterly caught off guard, her mind racing to find a reason for the sudden weight of the moment.
He was already looking at her.
He looked at her intently, his gaze heavy and focused, as if he were flirting with her using nothing but the silence between them. It felt deliberate. Like he'd been standing in the rain for three days just waiting for this exact second to pin her in place.
"How do you know my name?" she asked.
The question came out sharper than she intended. She wanted to sound in control, but her voice betrayed the tremor in her nerves.
His gaze didn't flicker. He stayed locked on her face. The corner of his lips lifted just a fraction of an inch; a hint of amusement that made her skin prickle.
"It's on your tag," he said.
Irene blinked. Her mind went completely blank, the gears grinding to a halt. Then, her hand moved instinctively to her chest, her fingers brushing over the cold, cheap plastic pinned to her uniform.
"Yeah. Right," she muttered.
Heat rushed to her face, a vivid, burning sting of embarrassment. She felt like a fool, the kind of girl who let a handsome stranger rattle her so badly she forgot her own clothes. She looked away quickly, her eyes darting to the floor, the counter, anywhere but the dark, steady brown of his eyes.
She tried to swallow the lump in her throat, but the strange, heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach only deepened.
"You're new here?" he asked.
"No," Irene replied. She kept it short, her voice clipped. She didn't want to give him an opening, yet she couldn't bring herself to walk away.
"Hmm. I see."
That was all he said. Just that one low vibration of a sound. He looked at her with a skepticism that suggested he knew exactly how long she'd been working this dead-end job, and exactly how much she hated it.
"Do you need anything else?" she asked, forcing a steadiness into her tone that she didn't feel.
"No,that will be it" he replied.
*A pause*
Irene started to turn, desperate to escape the gravity of his presence.
"At least not yet," he added.
Her stomach tightened. Irene gave a small, jerky nod and walked away, her back stiff and her pulse thundering in her ears. She didn't need to look back to know his eyes were tracked onto her every step of the way back to the safety of the counter.
"What's wrong with you today?" her manager muttered as she brushed past him.
"Nothing," Irene snapped.
But it was a lie. Something was shifting, a tectonic movement in her quiet, lonely life that she couldn't name.
The rest of her shift was a blur of steam, clattering ceramic, and muffled voices. She moved through the motions like a ghost, but every few minutes, the memory of that gaze replayed in her mind like a broken film strip.
Every time she risked a glance toward the window, he was there. Watching.
By the time the clock finally crawled to the end of her shift, the rain had died down to a thin, biting drizzle. Irene ripped off her apron, her muscles aching from the tension of being observed. She stepped out into the cold Belfast evening, the damp air hitting her face like a slap.
She didn't look back at the café. She just wanted the silence and comfort of her apartment.
That night, sleep was a lost cause.
Irene lay staring at the ceiling of her dark room, the shadows of the rain dancing on the plaster.
She replayed the encounter over and over, analyzing the way he spoke, the way he looked at her, the way he'd claimed her name before she'd even given it. It didn't make sense. He was a customer; a man with a twenty-pound note and a dark coat. So why did it feel like a beginning?
She turned onto her side, pulling the thin blanket tighter against her body.
"You're just overthinking, Irene," she whispered to the empty room. "He's just a customer."
Eventually, exhaustion won, and she drifted into sleep.
* * * * * * *
The next day, the obsession took hold. Irene found herself glancing at the door every time the bell chimed. Her heart would jump, a painful thud against her ribs, only to sink when a stranger or a regular walked in. He didn't show.
The second day passed the same way.
By the third, she was angry at herself. She told herself she didn't care. She told herself she was glad he was gone. But the disappointment was a physical weight in her chest, a hollow ache that made the coffee steam feel colder and the manager's voice louder.
She had just finished delivering a cup to table four, her mind wandering toward the bills waiting for her at home, when the door groaned open.
She didn't look. "Just another customer," she told herself. "Don't be pathetic."
But then, a scent hit her. A faint, masculine trail of spice and wood that cut through the smell of grease and coffee beans. Her steps faltered. Her heart skipped a beat.
She knew that cologne.
Before she could stop her body from reacting, she looked back. And there he was.
He walked in with a calm, unhurried stride, looking exactly as he had three days ago, as if the intervening time had meant nothing at all. He didn't look around. He didn't scan the room. He walked straight to Table Eight. The window seat. His seat.
"Are you okay?" her manager asked, eyeing her suspiciously.
"Yes. Yes," she lied, her voice breathless.
"Coffee please!" he called out. His voice was a masculine exclamation that cut through the midday lull.
Irene walked over, her legs feeling like they belonged to someone else.
"Black. Two sugars. Cream," she said before he could even speak.
He nodded, his eyes meeting hers with a knowing glint. She turned to head back to the counter, her mind already buzzing with the routine of the order.
"Make that two," he said.
Irene paused, spinning back toward him. "Two?"
"That's right."
"Alright. Coming up."
The café was unusually quiet. The lunch rush had cleared out, leaving the room to the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic on the wet streets. Her manager had vanished into the back to hide among the boxes. No one was paying attention.
Irene prepped the two coffees, her hands moving with a sharp, frantic energy. She set them on her tray and walked back to the window, placing them down with a quiet clink of porcelain.
"Are you expecting someone?" she asked, trying to sound like a professional server and failing miserably.
His eyes lifted to hers. Calm. Steady. "No I am not."
Irene stood there, confused. Clueless. "Then why two?"
He didn't answer immediately. He leaned back, his frame filling the small chair, his gaze settling on her with a weight that made it impossible to turn away.
"Sit with me," he said.
Irene's breath caught. Her heart skipped a beat, the blood rushing in her ears so loudly she thought she'd misheard him. "What?"
He looked her right in the eyes, his voice dropping to a low, undeniable frequency. "Sit."
Irene's fingers tightened around her empty tray, the plastic digging into her palms. Her frustration flared alongside her nerves.
"I'm working," she said. It was the only defense she had left, but even to her own ears, it sounded like a surrender.
"For five minutes," he replied.
Her heart pounded. This was wrong. She knew it was a mistake. She knew she was crossing a line she couldn't uncross. But as she looked at him sitting there, the steam rising from the two cups between them, she realized she was already moving.
She was already addicted to the curiosity of what came next.