Noah insists on walking me to the bus stop, even though I tell him I know the way.
"Humor me," he says, "I need the walk. Helps clear my head."
So we step out into the gray afternoon light, the kind that mutes the city's edges. The streets are damp but not quite wet, like it rained just enough to remind the pavement of water. We walk side by side, slowly, like neither of us is in a hurry to get anywhere.
Noah's presence is a good distraction. Sometimes he's surprisingly wise, sometimes he's expectedly calm. I wonder what he's been through and how did he handle the storms.
"I really have no idea what I'm doing," I admit as we round a corner. "With the barista stuff, I mean. I can barely make decent instant coffee."
"Most people start that way," Noah says, "it's less about coffee and more about rhythm. You'll pick it up."
"You're not worried I'll ruin an order? Or accidentally break the machine?"
"Yuna already did that. Twice."
I laugh under my breath. "Good to know there's a bar of chaos already set."
"And you just have to trip over it creatively," he replies with a faint smile.
"If I burn the kitchen?"
Noah tilts his head. "You like to imagining things that haven't happened yet, kiddo?"
I glance at him. "First, yes. Second, I'm not a kiddo. I'm probably just a few years younger than you."
He shoots a smile—or smirk. "Alright, big boy."
I narrow my eyes. "That doesn't sound good, I don't like that."
He laughs. "You're so honest and like to say what's on your mind for this kind of thing."
"You never asked my name," I murmur.
Noah's eyes soften. Or maybe. I don't know. But he stops looking at me and smiling. "What's so important about someone's name? I don't have to know your name to know that you need an escape and someone who listens to you."
And for few seconds, our eyes meet and hold. Like they're talking to each other. What even is this feeling? He's seeing through me.
The sidewalk isn't crowded, but the occasional bus roars past. A stray dog watches us from the other side of the street, tail flicking. I keep glancing at Noah, trying to figure him out.
He walks with his hands in his coat pockets, his scarf looped once around his neck, slightly off-center. Calm posture. Measured steps. Like someone who knows how to disappear in plain sight.
I'm 178 centimeters tall, and I have to tilt my head slightly to meet his eyes. Maybe 183? Probably a bit taller than that? He's not bulky, but he's not thin either. Just ... solid. Present. In a way that feels rare.
And I still don't know what to call him. A friend? A boss? A weird guardian figure who drinks lemon tea and hires strangers with two-sentence interviews? But our interactions are too casual, like we're getting closer—to something I don't know yet.
"You always this generous with new hires?" I ask.
"Not always. But I trust my gut. And you looked like you needed someone to say yes."
My throat tightens, but I keep walking. He's not wrong.
We pass a bookstore with its lights dimmed and its windows lined with used paperbacks. I glance at the titles, the faded covers. I used to read all the time—back when I had space in my head for stories that weren't mine. Also read philosophy books that don't even help at times like this. Or maybe I just need something real and present. Like Noah.
He breaks the silence. "When I first started in this city, I took a job cleaning a bakery at night. Slept in the storage room sometimes. Thought that was all I'd be worth."
I glance at him. That's a bit surprising. "What changed?"
"A stranger bought me breakfast one morning and said I looked like someone who needed a win. I didn't believe him. But he kept showing up. Turns out, sometimes people just show up."
His words hang there between us.
"So you're just ... passing it on?" I ask.
"Something like that."
The bus stop comes into view. A faded blue bench. A timetable that hasn't been updated in years. I slow my steps. I don't want to end this walk yet. I'm not ready to face the reality.
"You don't have to wait with me," I say.
"I know."
But he stays. I feel like I don't want him to leave just yet—too.
I sit on the edge of the bench. Noah leans against the pole, arms folded loosely. A car honks in the distance. Somewhere, a bird calls out from a rooftop. Winter also happens in this suburb. For me, who always lived in the center of this city, suburban has different chill vibes.
"You're quiet," he says.
"Just tired. And thinking."
"That's a dangerous combo."
I smile faintly. "You're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone colder. You have this whole cool, mysterious vibe. I thought you'd be all rules and distance."
He chuckles. That chuckle sounds nice. "Sorry to disappoint."
"No, I mean—it's not a bad thing. Just unexpected. You throw weird jokes and hand out life advice. Makes me feel like I'm in a slow indie film."
Noah tilts his head. "With good lighting, I hope."
"I hope nobody watches it."
We both laugh softly.
Then, quieter, I ask, "Why do you do this? Really? Not the cafe stuff. The whole ... helping broken people thing."
He doesn't answer right away.
Then .... "Because I didn't get that when I needed it most. And I remember exactly what it felt like to be invisible."
A beat passes. I nod, slowly. So, that's it. He's probably trying to save his old self. Or maybe I'm just imagining things.
The bus pulls up, sighing like it's tired of running. I stand, slinging my bag over my shoulder.
"Tomorrow, then?" I say.
"Tomorrow," Noah confirms.
"I'll contact you."
Noah nods. "As you should. You can call me. We can talk about stupid things. Or deep talk. Whichever you need the most. But I'll pick up."
And for once, the word doesn't feel like a threat. Just a soft promise.