The morning rush at Bean & Bloom Café was in full swing. Clara Santiago balanced three cappuccinos on a tray with the ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times, weaving between tables with a bright smile that matched the warm, cinnamon-scented air. Her curly brown hair was tied in a messy bun, though a few strands had rebelliously slipped free, framing her lively face.
"Here you go!" she chirped, sliding the cappuccinos onto a table of college students hunched over laptops. "Fuel for finals week. Don't worry, I added extra shots. May your essays be coherent and your professors merciful."
They laughed, and Clara turned back toward the counter, already calling out to her coworker, "Maya, I need another caramel latte for takeout!"
The bell above the door chimed. Clara barely looked up—customers came and went in waves at this hour. But when her eyes flicked toward the entrance, she caught sight of someone unfamiliar. He wasn't the type who blended in, either.
He stood just inside the doorway, a little hesitant, as though deciding whether he'd stepped into the right place. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a simple white button-down rolled at the sleeves, his presence seemed to demand a pause. His black hair fell casually across his forehead, and he carried a sketchbook tucked under one arm.
Clara blinked. New face. Definitely not a regular.
"Welcome to Bean & Bloom!" she called cheerfully, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she moved toward the counter. "What can I get started for you?"
The man approached slowly, scanning the menu written in chalk above her head. His eyes were a soft hazel, the kind that seemed to linger a second too long on details. "Uh… just a black coffee. Large. Please."
Clara tilted her head. "That's it? No flavor? No foam? No whipped cream mountain with a caramel drizzle?"
His lips curved slightly—almost a smile, but not quite. "Just coffee. Plain."
Clara pretended to sigh. "You're missing out, but hey, I respect the classics. One large black coffee coming up!" She scribbled his order and spun to the espresso machine.
The café hummed with chatter and clinking mugs. Maya nudged Clara with her elbow as she passed, whispering, "Tall, handsome, and mysterious at twelve o'clock. Don't screw this up."
Clara shot her a glare but couldn't help the grin tugging at her lips. She carefully poured the coffee into a paper cup, popped the lid on, and turned back toward the stranger.
"Here you go," she said brightly, handing it over.
Except—her hand slipped.
In one horrifying instant, the cup tipped, hot liquid sloshing over the rim. The man jolted back, but not before dark coffee splattered across his crisp white shirt.
"Oh no no no no no!" Clara gasped, scrambling for napkins. "I am so, so sorry—my hand just—oh gosh, I swear this never happens—well, okay, maybe it happens sometimes but not like this—"
The man looked down at his shirt, then at Clara, who was frantically dabbing at the fabric with napkins. Her face was crimson. "Please don't sue me," she blurted.
For a moment, silence hung between them. Then—he laughed.
Not a mocking laugh, but warm and genuine, the kind that surprised her. "It's fine. Really. I've survived worse things than coffee."
Clara froze mid-dab, wide-eyed. "You're laughing? Most people would be glaring at me right now."
"I'd rather not waste energy being mad over something that smells like breakfast," he said, shrugging. "Besides…" He tapped the sketchbook still under his arm, "maybe the stain will give me inspiration."
Clara blinked, then burst into laughter herself. Relief washed over her. "You're weird."
"Says the girl who almost gave me third-degree burns," he countered lightly.
"Touché." She handed him a fresh stack of napkins. "Still—coffee's on the house today. Consider it… an apology gift."
He accepted the napkins, still smiling faintly. "Fair enough."
As he turned to leave, Clara noticed something slip from the edge of his sketchbook and fall to the floor—a napkin, folded neatly, with a quick sketch in pencil. She bent to pick it up. Her breath caught.
It was a drawing of a single flower—simple, delicate, and strangely beautiful, as though the petals themselves carried motion.
By the time she looked up, the stranger was gone, the bell above the door chiming faintly in his wake.
Clara stared down at the sketch in her hands, her heart beating a little faster than it had a moment ago. She didn't even know his name.
But she had a flower.