Miranda did not sleep that night.
She tried, God knows she tried.
She drank chamomile tea.
She changed her sheets.
She paced the length of her bedroom until her legs trembled.
None of it helped.
Every time she closed her eyes, Raphael's voice echoed inside her skull.
"For… the quiet company."
Every time she turned on her pillow, she felt the ghost of his fingers brushing hers at the counter.
Her body was restless, attuned to something it had no right craving.
Worst of all, her mind was not fighting it.
She was married.
Devoted, or she tried to be.
Faithful, or she had been, until temptation had walked into her café with a sweet scent and eyes like liquid fire.
But last night, lying alone in a cold bed, she felt her marriage like a weight instead of a commitment.
A duty instead of a bond.
A cage instead of home.
She sat up abruptly, pressing her palm to her chest.
"What's happening to me?" she whispered into the dark.
The room didn't answer.
Her own heart did.
You've been lonely for years.
The next morning, everything felt wrong. Her husband had already left for the airport, again, leaving a cold dent on his side of the bed and the faint smell of cologne in the bathroom. The silence of the house rang louder than her own thoughts. She made breakfast, tied her hair back neatly and dressed for work. But none of it felt natural.
Her hands drifted to her lips, remembering how they'd parted when Raphael leaned in. Her skin still tingled from the warmth of him, an aftershock she couldn't shake.
"You're being ridiculous," she told her reflection.
But her reflection didn't believe her.
She ignored the knots in her stomach and walked to the café. She was late today and knew her workers would have opened the Café by now, the closer she got, the worse the fluttering became. When she reached the door, she froze. She dreaded the possibility that he might be inside but she also dreaded the possibility that he might not.
As she opened the door, she was greeted by the familiar scent of roasted beans.
Her sanctuary.
Her distraction.
She hoped work would steady her but barely twenty minutes in, she realized nothing would. Every sound of the door made her flinch, every shadow outside made her pulse stutter. Her heart was betraying her long before her body did.
Around noon, when the lunch rush swelled, she lost herself briefly in the frenzy, steaming milk, brewing pots, calling orders.
She didn't notice the moment the air shifted again. Not until she looked up and saw him.
Raphael.
Standing at the counter.
Her breath caught like a snare tightening.
He wasn't smiling, not the full, devastating one she dreaded, but something softer. A knowing warmth, like he had expected to see her and was pleased to be right.
She steadied herself.
"Good afternoon," she said, pretending her pulse wasn't crashing against her ribs.
"Good afternoon, Miranda." His voice was low, smooth and intimate even in the noisy café. "You look tired."
She blinked. "I, didn't sleep well."
His eyes softened. "Nor did I."
Her breath hitched.
He stepped closer, not enough to break propriety, but enough that she felt the heat of his presence.
"Yesterday stayed with me," he said quietly.
Her heart stuttered painfully.
Miranda swallowed. "Raphael…"
"Yes?"
"What are you ordering?."
Raphael as if coming back to his senses asked, "What do you recommend… for someone who hasn't slept and can't stop thinking?"
She tried to smile, but it came out crooked. "Strong coffee. "
" Then I'll take the coffee." He smiled
She turned to the espresso machine, grateful for the excuse to look away, to breathe.
"How do you want it?"
"As long you're making it, anything will do"
She glanced at him over her shoulder.
"Espresso then" Miranda decided
She handed him the cup, fingers brushing his just slightly, too brief to be called a touch, too long to be accidental.
"Do you live around here or perhaps do you work nearby?" Miranda asked
Raphael took a sip of coffee then answered "Not really, I don't even live in this country, came here for a contract."
"A Contract… are you're a photographer? I'm Asking because anytime I see you, you're always with a Camera." Miranda inquired.
"Yes indeed, am actually here for a Shoot"
"Alright then, I hope your shoot goes well"
"Thanks" Raphael replied
The conversation hung in the air like steam from the espresso machine, fragile and dissipating too quickly. Miranda busied herself wiping down the counter, her cloth moving in frantic circles over the same spot. Raphael lingered, sipping his coffee slowly, his eyes never leaving her. The lunch rush had thinned, leaving pockets of quiet amid the clatter of cups and murmured conversations. She could feel the weight of his gaze, pulling at her like gravity.
Then, it happened, the spark that shattered the fragile pretense of normalcy.
A harried customer at the end of the counter, juggling a tray of pastries and a to-go cup, bumped into a stool. The tray teetered, and in a cascade of misfortune, the cup tipped over, spilling hot latte across the counter in a milky flood. It surged toward Miranda like a wave, soaking the edge of her apron and threatening to drench the register.
"Watch out!" Raphael's voice cut through the noise, sharp and urgent. In a blur, he vaulted over the counter, graceful, almost predatory, with the ease of someone used to capturing fleeting moments through a lens. His hand shot out, grabbing a stack of napkins and pressing them against the spill, halting its advance just inches from her. Their bodies were suddenly close, his arm brushing her side and the scent of his cologne mingling with the sharp tang of spilled coffee.
The café seemed to hold its breath. Customers glanced over, but the moment passed quickly for them, a minor mishap in a busy day. For Miranda, time stretched. Raphael was right there, inches away, his face level with hers as he straightened up, napkins dripping in his hand.
"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice low, laced with concern that felt too personal, too intimate.
She nodded, her throat tight. "Yes... thank you. That was quick thinking." Some of the workers had already come over to clean up the mess
He didn't step back. Instead, he set the soggy napkins aside and turned fully toward her, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that made her knees weaken. The counter between them felt like no barrier at all now. "Miranda," he said softly, his accent curling around her name like a caress. "I can't keep pretending this is just about the coffee."
Her heart slammed against her ribs. "What... what do you mean?"
He glanced around, ensuring no one was within earshot, the staff were now occupied at the back, customers absorbed in their own worlds. Then, his hand reached out, hesitating before gently taking hers, his thumb tracing a slow circle over her knuckles. The touch sent sparks up her arm, igniting the restlessness she'd fought all night.
"From the first time I walked in here," he confessed, his voice a hushed rumble, "I've been drawn to you. Not just your beauty, though yes, you're stunning. It's the way you move, and there's… something about your eyes that just draws me in. Last night, after we talked I couldn't sleep. I paced my hotel room, thinking of you. Wondering if you felt it too, this pull, this fire."
Miranda's breath caught, her free hand gripping the counter for support. "Raphael, I... I'm…." she tried to tell him she's married but the words didn't come out.
"I know we just met," he said, his gaze unwavering, pained but resolute. "But I see the way you look at me, the way your hand lingers when you pass me a cup. Tell me I'm wrong, and I'll walk away without another word."
She couldn't. The words stuck in her throat, drowned by the truth pounding in her chest. The café faded around them, the world narrowing to just his eyes, liquid fire, as she'd thought before, now burning brighter.
"Be mine," he whispered, leaning in closer, his breath warm against her skin. "Give us a chance Miranda. Come with me. You never know, this could lead to something real, something alive. I want you, Miranda, not just for quiet company, but for everything. Say yes, and I'll show you a world beyond this counter."
The air between them crackled, the spilled coffee incident forgotten as if it never happened. Her mind screamed warnings, duty, vows, the life she'd known, but her heart was already reaching for him.
What would she say? The choice hung there, as precarious as the tray had been moments before.
"Come outside with me," he said quietly, his voice barely carrying over the hum of the café.
Her knees weakened beneath her.
"But, "
"Just to talk," he murmured, his eyes steady, pleading without pressure. "Nothing more. I promise."
Her heart waged war inside her chest. Her Conscience screamed warnings but her body leaned toward him, traitorous and aching. She closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself. "Two minutes," she whispered.
The slow, relieved curve of his lips felt like a victory she hadn't meant to give him.
---
Behind the café, the narrow service alley was shaded and quiet, shielded from the street by high walls and the late-afternoon sun. The distant clatter of dishes and muffled voices felt worlds away.
He waited with his hands in his pockets, watching her step through the door as if she might vanish if he moved too quickly.
Miranda hugged her arms across her chest.
"This is reckless," she said, voice low.
"Talking?" He tilted his head slightly. "Is talking reckless?"
"It's everything around the talking," she answered.
His gaze flicked to her mouth for the briefest second, then back to her eyes.
"Does it feel wrong?" he asked softly.
She swallowed. "Yes."
He nodded once, accepting it without argument.
"Then tell me to leave," he said. "Tell me not to come back tomorrow."
The words should have been easy.
They were right there on her tongue.
But when she opened her mouth, nothing came.
He read the silence perfectly.
"You don't want me to go," he said, not triumphant, just certain.
Her breath shook. "Raphael…"
"I don't want to go either."
She looked away, toward the sliver of street visible at the end of the alley, as if rescue might appear there.
"You barely know me," she said.
"I know enough," he replied. "I know the way you look up when the door opens, like you're hoping it's someone who truly sees you. I know the way your fingers hesitate before letting go of a cup you've handed me and…. I have a feeling you didn't sleep last night any more than I did."
Her eyes snapped back to his.
He took one careful step closer, still not touching her.
"I'm not asking you to throw your life away today," he said quietly. "I'm asking you to admit this is real. That it matters. That you feel it too."
The air between them felt too thin to breathe.
His hand rose slowly, giving her every chance to step back.
He didn't touch her face this time. Instead, his fingertips brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, light, reverent, electric.
She didn't move.
"You feel it," he whispered, more statement than question.
She couldn't lie. Not here. Not with his touch still burning against her skin.
A shaky exhale escaped her.
He leaned in just enough that she could feel the warmth of him, the unspoken invitation hanging between their lips.
"Tell me to stop," he said again, voice rough now.
Her lips parted.
No sound came.
His forehead rested gently against hers for a single, trembling second.
"Miranda," he breathed, "if I kiss you right now, I won't want to stop at one kiss. And I think you know that."
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
She was tilting toward him, barely perceptible, but undeniable, when a sharp clatter echoed from inside the café: a tray dropping, voices calling her name.
She jerked back as if burned.
"I have to, " she started, voice cracking.
"I know," he said softly, stepping away at once, giving her space without hesitation.
She backed toward the door, hand already on the handle.
"I'll be here tomorrow," he said, not a demand, just a quiet truth.
She fled inside without answering, heart racing, her skin still humming where he had touched her.
The rest of the day passed in fragments.
Every order she took, every smile she forced for customers, felt borrowed from someone else's life.
Raphael didn't come back inside.
But she felt him all the same, an awareness at the edge of her senses, patient and unwavering.
When closing time finally came, she turned the sign to CLOSED and lingered at the door longer than necessary.
Don't look. Don't look, but still she looked.
He was across the narrow street, leaning against the wall beneath the awning of the closed bookstore, bag slung over his shoulder and a book in hand, reading.
Suddenly he looked up, his quiet gaze fixed on her.
No smile. No wave.
It wasn't Raphael but another man with a similar body structure.
Her fingers tightened around the keys.
She locked the door, turned away, and started walking.
Ten steps.
Twenty.
Her pace slowed.
She stopped.
Unable to get rid herself of the memory of how close she and Raphael came to kissing, in that moment, with the evening light softening around her and the street nearly empty, Miranda understood something with devastating clarity:
She wasn't going to tell him to leave tomorrow.
She wasn't sure she ever would.