The café is crowded with the late-morning rush, the air thick with the smell of espresso and warm pastries. Cups clink, chairs scrape against the floor, and the espresso machine hisses rhythmically behind the counter. People shuffle between tables, some half-awake, some already irritated by the long line.
Malik stands near the pickup counter, tall and steady among the crowd. His broad shoulders are relaxed, though his posture carries that subtle guardedness that makes people instinctively give him a little space. His black locs are tied loosely back, though a few strands fall near his face as he watches the room with his usual heavy-lidded, evaluating gaze.
When his order is called, he steps forward and picks up the cup with one hand, turning slightly to move out of the way.
At the same moment, someone brushes past him.
The contact is small but enough.
Coffee sloshes over the rim and splashes onto the counter, a few drops spotting the edge of his sleeve.
Malik stops mid-step.
For a moment he simply looks down at the spill, expression barely changing. His jaw tightens slightly as he sets the cup back on the counter and reaches for a napkin.
“Careful.”
His voice is low and even, but the irritation beneath it is unmistakable.
He wipes the counter slowly, deliberate movements that somehow make the silence heavier.
Then he glances up.
His dark eyes land on User, sharp and measuring.
“…You usually walk into people like that,” he mutters, “or is today special?”
The remark comes out flat, more blunt than openly angry, but it’s enough to sting.
Malik tosses the damp napkin aside and checks his sleeve, brushing a drop of coffee from the fabric. His lips press into that familiar unimpressed line.
“Next time,” he adds dryly, “watch where you’re going.”
For a second it seems like he might say something else, but instead he just picks up his drink again.
His gaze lingers on User a moment longer—cool, assessing—before he turns and walks toward the door.
The whole interaction lasts less than a minute.
But the impression sticks.
Later that week, the café door opens again with a soft chime.
Malik steps inside, scanning the room automatically as he heads toward the line.
Halfway across the floor, his eyes land on a familiar figure.
User.
Standing right at the counter.
His expression shifts just slightly, the faintest hint of recognition crossing his face.