CAGED

CHAPTER 3 - NO STRINGS, JUST COFFEE

The café was unusually quiet for a Tuesday afternoon. The usual lunchtime rush had come and gone, leaving behind an almost serene calm. The sound of the espresso machine was a constant hum in the background, punctuated by the occasional sizzle of milk as it frothed. The regulars came and went, exchanging pleasantries, their voices low and familiar, but nothing that required her attention.

Rhea's movements behind the counter had become almost mechanical, fluid and controlled. The rhythm of the café had worked its way into her bones, and it was almost as if she had always belonged there. Her posture, once stiff and rigid from the tension of her old life, had relaxed over the past few weeks. Her shoulders no longer hunched in defense, and her gaze softened when it met the other baristas or customers. But there was still a distance in her eyes—a quiet detachment. It was a silence that everyone seemed to recognize but never commented on.

No one pushed for her story, and she didn't offer it. She kept to herself, working in the rhythm of the café and keeping her thoughts to herself. Occasionally, a regular might flirt or make small talk, but Rhea had perfected the art of deflecting any attempt at connection. She gave polite smiles, soft responses, and then shifted her focus to the next order, her expression serene and unreadable.

Inside, though? It was a different story. Her past—her ghosts—still haunted her like a cloak that wouldn't let go. They were always there, lingering, even in the moments when she appeared calm on the outside. She didn't know if anyone noticed. Maybe they did. But they never said anything.

The café was bathed in the soft amber glow of the setting sun, casting long shadows across the floor. Rhea moved behind the counter, wiping down the same spot for the third time, not really seeing the surface but feeling the smoothness of the wood under her rag. She was lost in the repetitive motion when she heard the faint chime of the doorbell above her.

"Excuse me."

The voice sliced through the quiet of the café, pulling her back into the present. Rhea looked up.

Standing at the entrance was a man. He was tall—around six feet, maybe a little more—and his presence was immediately noticeable. There was something commanding about him, something that made the room feel smaller the moment he stepped inside. His dark hair was neatly styled, not in an overly groomed way but in that effortless, just-got-out-of-bed look that somehow always seemed perfect. His jawline was sharp, almost chiseled, giving him an almost too-perfect appearance, but there was a coolness to him that made it hard to pin down exactly who he was.

He wore a charcoal gray coat that fit him perfectly, the kind of coat that whispered wealth without flaunting it. Underneath, a crisp white dress shirt peeked out, the collar sharp enough to slice through glass. His trousers were black, tailored, and fit him just right. It was a look that said he had a purpose, a man who moved through life with intention. The only thing that betrayed any sign of being casual was his shoes—polished but worn, as though he had walked through many places and seen many things but didn't feel the need to make them known.

His eyes, though, those were the most striking. They were hazel, a shade that shifted from gold to green depending on the light, like something that couldn't quite decide on its true color. They weren't the kind of eyes that scanned the room aimlessly. No, these eyes were purposeful, almost too focused, and they settled on her with a quiet intensity that made Rhea's breath hitch for just a second. It wasn't a look that demanded attention—it was more subtle than that—but it was hard to ignore.

"Table for one?" Rhea asked, her voice steady and measured, despite the shift in the air around her.

He blinked, taking a moment before responding, as though he was measuring his words. "Yeah. Just coffee. Black."