CHAPTER 4

Saturday morning meant double shifts and questionable choices, like eating cheesecake for breakfast and thinking "just one espresso shot" wouldn't lead to a caffeine-induced existential spiral.

Ellie tied her apron and glanced at the mirror behind the café counter. Hair: chaotic. Eyes: sleep-deprived. Smile: trying.

The café was buzzing. Couples laughed over pancakes, college kids studied like their lives depended on it, and the espresso machine hissed like a very dramatic dragon.

And then the door chimed.

He walked in.

Not Oat Milk Guy.

Not a regular.

Someone… new.

Tall. Hoodie. Messy dark hair. Tired eyes. A sling bag slung awkwardly over one shoulder and a sketchpad jutting from the side. He looked like he hadn't slept in days and somehow, he wore that like it was part of the aesthetic.

He hesitated at the entrance, glanced at the chalkboard menu like it was a quantum physics exam, then made his way to the counter.

"Hi," he said, voice low and dry. "Can I get just… the most basic coffee you have?"

Ellie froze. No. Way.

She blinked. "Like, emotionally basic? Or just, like, black?"

He chuckled. "Let's go with emotionally basic."

She smiled and nodded, punching it in. "Rough morning?"

"Rough life," he said, then shrugged. "Writer. Artist. Sleepless idiot."

"Oh," she said, her voice rising before she could stop it. "You're a writer?"

"Trying to be," he said. "Failing, mostly. I draw. Stories. Posters. Stuff no one reads unless it's free."

Ellie stared. Writer. Tired eyes. Sarcastic. Black coffee.

It had to be him.

Max.

Her fingers trembled as she handed over the cup.

She hesitated then grabbed a pen.

Hope the coffee helps — Ellie

She slid it across like she was defusing a bomb.

He blinked at the message, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. Then—just a smile. Not wide. Not sarcastic. Just soft. Grateful.

"Thanks," he said, almost shyly, and wandered to the back corner. He didn't pull out a laptop—he pulled out a battered sketchpad and a pencil pouch covered in doodles. He flipped it open and started drawing furiously.

Her phone buzzed in her apron.

Max:

Some guy just stole my seat at this café. Justice is dead.

Ellie:

Wait… what café?

Max:

This place in Midtown. "Beans & Prose." Never been here before. Smells like expensive paper and regret.

Ellie's stomach dropped.

She looked up at Hoodie Guy, now sketching like a man possessed.

Back at her phone.

Max wasn't here.

Her face went hot.

She'd misread everything. Jumped to conclusions. Written on a stranger's coffee cup like some desperate romcom cliché.

She laughed under her breath, equal parts relieved and humiliated.

Ellie:

Remind me never to become a detective.

Max:

Noted. Stick to coffee. You're probably less dangerous that way.

The rest of her shift blurred into a series of poorly timed refills and awkward table mix-ups. Ellie kept glancing at Hoodie Guy—Artist Guy—who was now hunched over a second cup of coffee and furiously shading in what looked like a dragon coiled around a latte.

He never looked up. Not once.

But Ellie couldn't shake the idea that she'd just witnessed the ghost of a possibility. That fleeting thrill of maybe, maybe this is it, only to find out she'd handed her number to a plot twist.

By her lunch break, she was stress-eating biscotti in the back room and replaying everything. Not just today. The whole week. The wrong text, the banter, the name "Max" now echoing in her brain like an unfinished song lyric.

She pulled out her phone.

Ellie:

Ever text someone and then spend the rest of the day wondering if you overshared or underwhelmed?

Max:

Constantly. I'm emotionally volatile and my thumbs are reckless.

Ellie:

I gave a stranger a coffee cup with a personal note. Thought he was you. It was not you.

Max:

Wait WHAT 😂

Ellie:

I panicked. He had the same vibe. Hoodie. Sad eyes. Existential caffeine order. Sketchpad.

Max:

You flirted with Artist Me. I'm doubly wounded.

Ellie:

You were late.

Max:

I was THERE. In spirit. Like a caffeine-dependent poltergeist.

She laughed. It felt good. Like shaking off an awkward moment and choosing to find it funny instead of soul-crushing.

She returned to the counter, refilled syrup containers, and hummed to herself. Hoodie Guy left without a word. No second glance. No "Hey, thanks for the passive-aggressive encouragement." Just vanished like a subplot that didn't survive the final draft.

Except.

Except he left his stir stick on the table. And it had little cartoon faces doodled along the shaft. One of them had an apron and messy bun.

Ellie blinked.

She quietly tucked it into her pocket.

By the time her shift ended, Ellie was equal parts exhausted and wired. She walked home with her phone glowing in her palm like a lifeline.

Max:

So what now, Detective?

Ellie:

Now I avoid eye contact with every tall hoodie-wearing stranger in a 3-mile radius.

Max:

Understandable.

Ellie:

And maybe...

She hesitated.

Then typed.

Ellie:

Maybe next time you pick the café. I'll just show up and hope you're not a hallucination.

Three dots appeared.

Paused.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Max:

Deal. But only if they serve croissants that emotionally understand me.

Ellie:

I'll bring one just in case. I have connections.

She hit send before she could overthink it. Then immediately regretted it. Then un-regretted it. Then sat down on the edge of her bed and stared at the wall, grinning like someone who just made a terrible, wonderful decision.

Somewhere across the city, Max stared at his phone, thumb poised.

He didn't send anything else.

Not yet.

But he smiled.

And for the first time in weeks, the blinking cursor on his script didn't look so intimidating.

He started typing.

A scene.

A girl. A café. A misplaced note. And a case of mistaken identity.

Just a draft.

For now.