Chapter Text
The bell above the door of -The Daily Grind- didn’t jingle so much as it announced, with a dull, bronze clang, that someone had entered the sanctuary of caffeine and quiet.
Fang didn’t look up immediately. He was in the middle of steaming oat milk for a cappuccino, his eyes focused on the thermometer dial, waiting for the perfect sixty degrees. He was a man of routine, of precision, and of silence. He liked the early shift. He liked the way the morning sun sliced through the dusty front window and the smell of roasted beans before the city outside fully woke up.
"Good morning," a soft voice said.
Fang’s ears perked up. He knew that voice. He set the pitcher down and turned around.
It was 7:15 AM. Right on time.
Standing at the counter was the man in the grey oversized cardigan. He had messy, dark hair that looked like he had run a hand through it six times on the way over, and he wore glasses that slid slightly down the bridge of his nose. He was clutching a worn, black notebook to his chest like a shield.
This was Tan. Or at least, that was the name Fang had managed to decipher one morning when the man paid with a card.
"Morning," Fang said, his voice coming out a little rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat, leaning his elbows on the counter. "The usual?"
Tan smiled. It was a small, barely-there thing, just a slight uptick of the corner of his mouth. "Please. One large iced Americano. No water, no sugar."
"Coming right up."
Fang turned to the machine. The hiss of the espresso press was a comforting sound. As he waited for the shots to pull, he glanced over his shoulder. Tan was already walking toward his spot.
The shop was tiny—just four small tables and a long bench seat by the window—but Tan always chose the table in the far back corner, tucked away behind a large potted fern. It was the quietest spot in the room, shielded from the street noise.
Fang watched as Tan settled in. He took off his cardigan, revealing a simple white t-shirt, hung it on the back of the chair, and sat down. Then, the ritual began. Notebook open. Pen uncapped. A pause to stare out the window for exactly ten seconds. Then, the pen hit the paper.
Fang poured the espresso over the ice, the dark liquid swirling into the cup. He grabbed a lid and a napkin.
It had been like this for three weeks. Every morning, 7:15 AM. Tan ordered the same drink. He sat in the same seat. He wrote for two hours. He never ordered food. He never made phone calls. He just... wrote.
Fang walked around the counter and brought the drink to the table. He placed it gently on the coaster, careful not to disturb the notebook.
"Thanks, Fang," Tan murmured without looking up.
Fang paused. *He knows my name.*
Fang looked down at the counter near the register where his nametag sat. It was small, mostly obscured by the pastry display. He felt a strange little flip in his stomach.
"You're welcome," Fang said.
He lingered for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, his curiosity burning a hole in his reserve. He tried to catch a glimpse of the handwriting on the page, but Tan’s hand moved quickly, a frantic scrawl of black ink that filled the lines from margin to margin.
Was he a student? A journalist? An aspiring novelist?
"Busy morning?" Tan asked suddenly.
The question caught Fang off guard. It was the most personal thing Tan had said to him since "Can I have the receipt?"
Fang blinked, recovering his composure. "Same as always. Just the morning rush. The office crowd usually starts flooding in around eight."
Tan stopped writing. He looked up, and for the first time, Fang really looked into his eyes behind those lenses. They were dark, intelligent, and looked incredibly tired.
"Do you like it?" Tan asked. "The rush, I mean."
Fang thought about it. He liked the rhythm of it. He liked making things with his hands. "I don't mind it," Fang said honestly. "It’s better than being stuck in a cubicle."
Tan nodded slowly, a look of understanding passing over his face. "Quiet is better, though. That’s why I come here."
He tapped his pen against the notebook. "It’s hard to find a place that lets you just... exist. Without bothering you."
Fang felt a strange sense of pride warm his chest. "Well," he said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his apron. "You’re not bothering anyone. You’re practically a fixture at this point."
The words hung in the air for a moment. Fang worried he had crossed a line, sounded too forward.
But Tan let out a soft, breathy laugh. "A fixture. That makes me sound like the fern."
"Pretty much," Fang deadpanned, though a smile tugged at his lips.
Tan grinned back, a genuine one this time that reached his eyes. "I'll take that as a compliment."
He returned to his writing, the silence of the shop settling back around them, but it felt different now. Lighter.
Fang walked back behind the counter, the morning sun finally hitting the espresso machine. He wiped down the counter, stealing glances at the back corner every few minutes.
Tan wrote with an intensity that fascinated Fang. Sometimes he would frown, chewing on the end of his pen. Sometimes he would pause and stare at the ceiling as if the answers were written in the ceiling tiles.
At 9:00 AM, the rush hit. A line of people in suits and uniforms formed, snapping fingers and shouting orders for lattes and cold brews. Fang moved into autopilot, grinding, tamping, steaming, and pouring. The noise level in the shop rose to a roar.
Through the chaos, Fang looked at the back corner.
Tan hadn't moved. He was an island of calm in the sea of morning chaos. He had finished his iced Americano—the ice was melting into a diluted pool at the bottom of the cup—but he was still writing.
Around 9:30 AM, the rush died down as quickly as it had started. The shop cleared out, leaving behind only the smell of coffee and the scattered newspapers.
Tan closed his notebook with a decisive thud. He capped his pen. He stretched his arms over his head, his spine cracking audibly, even from across the room. He rubbed the back of his neck, wincing slightly.
Fang came out from behind the counter, holding a small bottle of water. He didn't know what made him do it; it wasn't standard service. But Tan looked exhausted.
He walked over to the table just as Tan was putting on his cardigan.
"Rough session?" Fang asked, placing the water bottle on the table next to the empty coffee cup.
Tan looked at the water, then up at Fang. He looked surprised. "Oh. You didn't have to..."
"It’s on the house," Fang said. "You looked like you were fighting a war with that page."
Tan let out a long exhale, his shoulders dropping. He rubbed his eyes. "It felt like it. The characters... they just won't listen to me today."
"So it is a story," Fang said, feeling a thrill of victory at solving the mystery.
Tan looked down at his notebook, his thumb stroking the worn leather cover. "Yes. A story. Or maybe just a very long diary entry disguised as one. I'm still figuring it out."
He stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He looked at Fang, tilting his head. "Thanks for the water. And the quiet."
"I'll save the seat for you tomorrow," Fang said before he could stop himself.
Tan paused at the door, his hand on the handle. He looked back at Fang, the morning sun framing him in gold. He smiled again, soft and secret.
"I know you will," Tan said.
The bell clanged as the door opened and closed, and Tan stepped out into the bustling city street. Fang stood there for a moment, looking at the empty table in the corner, the empty cup, and the empty chair.
He glanced at the clock. 7:15 AM couldn't come soon enough.