Names and Recipes

Anaya had a rule: once the workday began, everything else vanished. Coffee, conversations, and distractions all dissolved into a single focus her designs.
But that Monday, her thoughts weren’t entirely her own.
The boardroom was lined with glass, sunlight spilling across the table as her supervisor scrolled through her proposal slides. Anaya kept her posture sharp, her voice steady, every detail rehearsed. And yet, like an ink blot on her blueprints, the memory of the stranger intruded.
Caramel latte, extra shot, no whipped cream.
She tightened her grip on her pen. Ridiculous. She didn’t even know his name.
Her proposal ended with polite applause. Compliments were given. Promises of review. But when she walked out, she couldn’t shake the small, maddening thought: Would he actually make better coffee?
That evening, she found out.
The same cafe, by coincidence or fate, and there he was perched at the corner table with his ink-stained notebook, scribbling furiously.
She hesitated in the doorway. She should have walked past. But curiosity tugged harder than discipline.
He noticed her first. “Caramel latte girl.” His grin spread like it had been waiting all day. “Back again.”
“Coincidence,” she said quickly, though her heart betrayed her by racing.
“Then let me fix the coincidence,” he replied, closing his notebook. “I owe you a proper coffee. Not this watered-down excuse.”
Anaya raised a brow. “And how exactly will you do that? Hijack their espresso machine?”
“Close.” He tapped his notebook. “Recipes. My own creations. One day I’ll have a place of my own, and people will line up for flavors they didn’t know they needed.”
Something in his voice was so certain it startled her. Passion made solid, like steel beams in her architecture.
“And what’s your name, Coffee Prophet?” she asked, unable to hide her smirk.
“Kabir,” he said, offering his ink-stained hand.
She shook it, her own fingers marked faintly with graphite. The contact was brief, but it lingered.
“And you?” he asked.
“Anaya.”
“Anaya,” he repeated, as though tasting it. “Strong. Precise. Like espresso.”
She laughed, despite herself. “Is everything a coffee metaphor to you?”
“Only when it fits.”
They talked longer than she intended. About coffee and architecture, recipes and blueprints, the stubborn way passion steals sleep yet fuels mornings.
When she finally checked her watch, nearly an hour had slipped past.
Kabir leaned back, unbothered. “See? Told you I make better coffee. And I didn’t even need a machine.”
“You didn’t make me anything,” she reminded him.
“Not yet.” His grin turned mischievous. “But next time, I will. And you’ll admit it.”
Anaya left the cafe shaking her head. But as she walked home, her lips curved upward, betraying the truth:
There would be a next time.