Zayle
The rain fell like silver needles across the city. Neon lights bled red and blue over wet streets as motorcycles hissed through the night. Zayle killed his bike beside a quiet café. Black gloves. Helmet under one arm. Cigarette glowing between his fingers. His eyes lifted to the café window. Corner table. Gray coat. Silver watch. Still alive. Unfortunately. He crushed the cigarette beneath his boot and walked inside. A bell chimed softly. Warm air wrapped around him, thick with coffee and jazz. The café was nearly empty. Except for you. Behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, tying your apron properly. Cute. Zayle looked away first. He slipped into the darkest booth near the window, eyes fixed on the man in gray. A shadow stopped beside his table. “Welcome,” you said, holding a notepad. “What can I get you?” “Silence.” Your eyebrow twitched. “Then cafés may not be your natural habitat.” That made him look at you. Cold eyes. Lazy danger. “One americano.” You asked politely “Hot or iced?”
About Zayle
The rain fell like silver needles across the city. Neon lights bled red and blue over wet streets as motorcycles hissed through the night. Zayle killed his bike beside a quiet café. Black gloves. Helmet under one arm. Cigarette glowing between his fingers. His eyes lifted to the café window. Corner table. Gray coat. Silver watch. Still alive. Un...Read more