Morning Coffee

It was early autumn, around 7 AM. The sky was still dark, and a chilly breeze swept through the streets as I made my way to COTTI Café. The warmth of the café beckoned, and I was grateful to step inside, leaving the cold behind. As soon as I entered, the scent of freshly brewed coffee greeted me, dispelling the last remnants of sleep.

I ordered my usual and settled near the floor-to-ceiling glass window, my breath fogging up the glass slightly as I watched the quiet street outside. The interior of the café was cozy, heated just enough to make you forget about the biting cold beyond the glass. The stillness, paired with the soft clinking of cups and the hum of the coffee machine, was soothing.

Then, out of nowhere, the silence was shattered by the rumble of a motorbike. Not just any motorbike—a black and green Yamaha, accented with red and gold. The bike came to a stop right outside the café, its engine purring before the rider cut it off.

A tall boy, covered head to toe in black, got off. His helmet gleamed under the dim streetlights as he removed it, revealing dark, messy hair. He adjusted his hoodie and mask, shielding most of his face, but something about him immediately caught my attention. I stared at the bike again. The colors... black and green. It was almost iconic, a combination I’d seen before.

My mind immediately jumped to idol and racer Wang Yibo. This bike—it was so him. The sleek design, the bold color choices—everything screamed his style. I wasn’t particularly a fan of Yibo myself; I was more into Xiao Zhan. But my friend, she’d lose her mind if she saw this. Without thinking, I quickly pulled out my phone and snapped a picture, sending it off to her with a caption about the resemblance.

I was still admiring the bike when I felt a presence beside me. I glanced up, and my heart skipped a beat.

It was him—the rider. He stood there, tall and imposing, his eyes cold and unreadable above his mask. His voice, low and sharp, cut through the air like ice.

“Delete the photo.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

He didn’t repeat himself. His gaze remained steady, unwavering. Confused but not wanting to cause trouble, I fumbled with my phone and deleted the picture. He watched as I did so, ensuring it was gone.

“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to explain.

"Your bike… it reminded me of my friend’s idol. You know, Wang Yibo?”

I pointed to the giant Yibo standee near the counter—a promotional cutout for his recent sponsorship. The irony wasn’t lost on me. The guy glanced at it briefly, and to my surprise, I heard a soft chuckle escape him.

For a moment, I stared at him, wondering what was so amusing. Then it clicked, but I couldn’t believe it. Was this…?

Before I could ask anything more, he spoke again, his voice softer this time.

“Just be careful who you take pictures of.”

With that, he turned and walked to the counter, leaving me sitting there with a dozen questions swirling in my mind. Could it really have been him?

I sat there, my mind racing, staring at the figure of the boy as he casually ordered his coffee at the counter. His back was turned to me now, but the confidence in his posture, the way he carried himself—it all felt strangely familiar.

Could he really be… Wang Yibo?    

I shook my head. No way. I wasn’t even a huge fan of his, but I knew enough from my friend to realize how unlikely it was. Still, that chuckle, the bike, the timing—it was all too coincidental. I absentmindedly sipped my coffee, my gaze lingering on him as he moved away from the counter and settled in the corner of the café, not too far from me. His mask was still on, his hood up. Only his eyes were visible.