Chapter 5 – Stirred, Not Shaken

The next morning, Celine strutted into the café like she was walking a runway. Chin up, ponytail bouncing, and a smile so smug it could power the espresso machine.

“Why do you look like you just won the lottery?” asked Marites, the manager, without looking up from the pastry case.

Celine leaned in close, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Because I survived noodles with him and didn’t throw chopsticks at his head.”

Marites gave her a side-eye so sharp it could cut glass. “So… it was a date?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Uh-huh.”

As if the universe were determined to expose her, Liam walked in right on cue—hair slightly damp, shirt a little wrinkled, and his ever-present sketchbook tucked under his arm like a lifeline.

Celine practically vaulted over the espresso machine. “Welcome back, customer!” she sang. “Please enjoy today’s special: one coffee, free sarcasm included.”

Liam leaned against the counter, lazy grin in place. “Do I get whipped cream with the sarcasm?”

“No,” she said sweetly. “You get regret.”

“Ah. My favorite flavor.”

Marites muttered something about “just date already” and stalked off to the back, leaving Celine scowling and Liam laughing.

The café was packed that afternoon. A group of college kids ordered frappes so complicated they might as well have required a degree in chemistry. A toddler managed to spill orange juice across three tables like it was performance art. The register jammed. And in the middle of it all, Celine had whipped cream on her elbow and a headache forming behind her eyes.

That’s when Liam appeared at the counter, sliding a napkin toward her.

“Emergency sketch request,” he said gravely. “Quick, draw me as a superhero.”

She blinked at him. “I’m literally working.”

“Fine, I’ll wait. But just so you know, I’d make an excellent Super Espresso Man.”

She snorted. “You’d be Super Sleepy Man.”

“Still heroic,” he said solemnly.

She rolled her eyes but grabbed a pen during the next lull. Ten seconds later, she handed back the napkin.

He looked. Then he laughed so hard he had to grip the counter.

“This is—what is this?!”

“That’s you! See the cape?” she said innocently.

“You gave me a unibrow!”

“Artistic interpretation,” she replied primly, crossing her arms.

“Oh, it’s war.” He pulled out his own pen and sketchbook, scribbled furiously, then slid it over.

Celine peeked—and groaned. “You did not draw me riding a giant coffee bean like it’s a horse.”

“Complete with foam crown,” he pointed out proudly. “Behold: Princess Cappuccino.”

She tried to look offended but cracked a laugh, clutching the counter for support. A customer waiting for his latte leaned over, curious.

“Wow,” the guy said. “You two are cute.”

Celine almost choked on air. Liam smirked like he’d just won a prize.

By closing time, the chaos had died down, leaving the café oddly quiet. The lights glowed softer, shadows stretching across the wooden floor. Celine leaned against the counter, exhausted, when Liam reached over and pulled the last muffin from the display case.

“Tragic,” he said. “One slightly stale blueberry muffin, abandoned and alone.”

She raised a brow. “You’re not seriously eating that.”

He broke it in half and held out a piece. “Sharing food is how people fall in love in dramas, right?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Careful. You sound like you watch too many.”

“Guess we’re doomed, then.”

The words slipped out casually, but they didn’t laugh. Not immediately. For one strange, suspended second, the air shifted between them.

Celine looked at him. Really looked. The boy who doodled skyscrapers on napkins, who teased her until she wanted to throw whipped cream at him, who somehow made the café chaos less heavy.

And Liam looked back, eyes dark and searching, like he was memorizing her face.

Then the muffin crumbled in her fingers, and she blurted, “Yup, definitely stale. Tragic.”

They laughed, the tension snapping, but the moment lingered long after they closed up.

That night, Liam set his sketchbook carefully on his desk, like it was something fragile. The echo of her laughter still lingered in his chest, warm and maddening. For a few fleeting hours, he had almost forgotten.

Almost.

His phone buzzed.

Unknown Number: Tomorrow. Delivery records. Don’t make us remind you again.

He froze. Then a second notification popped up.

A photo.

Liam’s stomach dropped. It was his younger sister, resting in her apartment, wearing some bandages, with visible spots of blood, and a caregiver beside her. The photo was grainy, taken just across the street. 

His blood turned to ice.

They weren’t just threatening him anymore. They knew where his family lived.

His hands shook as he gripped the phone. He could still see Celine’s grin in his mind, hear her mocking voice: “Super Sleepy Man.” He wanted to hold onto that, to stay in that light.

But guilt clawed at him, heavier than ever. Navarro Coffee—the place he’d found peace, the place where she worked—was the target.

He typed back with trembling fingers.

I’ll do it. Tomorrow night.

The reply came instantly:

Good. Don’t get clever.

Liam dropped the phone onto the desk and pressed his palms to his eyes. He had no choice.

Tomorrow night, he’d betray Navarro Coffee.

Tomorrow night, he’d betray her.