The Night Isn't Over Yet

11:40 PM: The Stranger

The rain had been falling for three hours when he walked in.

I was wiping the counter at Brew & Ash, the small café where I worked the night shift. It was 11:40 p.m. Only three customers were left. One more hour, and I could go home, kick off my shoes and forget this day.

Then the door opened, and the whole room got colder.

He was tall. Black coat. Wet hair. A sharp jaw that looked like it never smiled for free. He did not shake off the rain like normal people do. He just stood there and looked at me, like he had all the time in the world.

The Order

"Welcome," I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted. "What can I get you?"

"Black coffee. No sugar." He paused. "And a pinch of cinnamon on the saucer. The way you like it."

My hand stopped moving.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing." One corner of his mouth lifted. "Just a guess."

A guess, my ass.

I never told anyone about the cinnamon. I never even put it in front of customers. I only did it for myself, late at night, when the café was empty and nobody was watching.

Or so I thought.

I made his coffee. My hands were shaking, and I hated that he could probably see it. When I put the cup down, he did not look at it. He looked at my fingers. Then at my wrist. Then, slowly, at my face.

"Thank you, Meera."

I went cold. Then hot. Then cold again.

"How do you know my name?"

"It was on your tag."

"I lost my tag three days ago."

He did not answer. He just picked up his cup and walked to the table by the window. The same table. The one with the candle. The one I always cleaned last because it had the best view of the street.

The Table by the Window

He sat down like he owned it.

For the next hour, I tried to work. I wiped tables that were already clean. I counted the till twice. The other customers left one by one, and every time the door closed, the room felt smaller.

He never touched his phone. He never opened a book. He just drank his coffee and watched me.

Not like a creep. That would have been easy. A creep, I know how to handle.

This was worse. He watched me like I was something he had already decided to keep.

Closing Time

At 12:45 a.m., I flipped the sign to CLOSED.

"We're closing," I said, walking over to his table with my arms crossed. "You need to leave."

Too Close

He stood up.

God, he was tall. I had to tilt my head back to look at him. He took one slow step toward me, and I took one step back. Then another. Until my back hit the counter and there was nowhere left to go.

He put one hand on the counter, right beside my hip. Not touching me. But so close that I could feel the heat of his skin through my shirt.

"Who the hell are you?" I whispered.

"Kabir."

"That's not an answer."

"No," he said softly. "It isn't."

His eyes dropped to my mouth. My breath caught, and I hated myself for it. My heart was screaming at me to run, to shout, to grab the pepper spray in my bag.

My body was not listening.

He lifted his other hand and, very slowly, tucked a wet strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brushed my neck. Just for a second. Just enough to make my skin burn.

"Your pulse is fast," he murmured.

"Because I'm scared of you."

"Are you?"

I wanted to say yes. I really did.

The word got stuck in my throat.

He smiled then. A small, dark, knowing smile. The kind that says I already know the answer, and I'm in no hurry.

The Warning

"Lock the back door tonight, Meera," he said, stepping away. The cold air rushed in between us, and I almost hated him for it. "Not because of me."

"Then why?"

"Because of everyone else."

He walked to the door. He did not look back. The little bell rang, and the rain swallowed him whole.

I stood there for a long time, my hands gripping the counter, my breath shaking.

What He Left Behind

Then I saw it.

On his table, next to the empty cup, sat a small silver tag.

My name tag.

MEERA.

Underneath it was a tiny pinch of cinnamon, perfectly placed on the saucer.

Outside, through the rain-streaked window, I saw a black car sitting across the street. Its lights were off. Its engine was running.

And it was not leaving.

The night isn't over yet. — E.N.