novel 1

Genre: Romance

Name: Luneya Dora

Title: The 3:17 AM Coffee Order

I’m a night shift barista at a 24-hour café. The 3 AM crowd is usually three types: students pulling all-nighters, lorry drivers, and heartbroken people.

He was the fourth type. The guy who ordered “black coffee, hot, no sugar” every Tuesday and Thursday, exactly at 3:17 AM.

His name is Rayyan. I knew because he paid with QR and his full name popped up: Rayyan Iskandar. But he never looked at me. Walk in, order, sit at the corner table, open his laptop. 4:00 AM, he leaves.

Six months like that. I memorized his hoodies by day. Tuesday: navy. Thursday: black. I memorized how he clicked his pen when he was stressed. I memorized his playlist because he always forgot to take out one earbud “Night Trouble” by Petit Biscuit, on loop four times.

Week 27, heavy rain. He came in soaked. Ordered as usual. I broke café rules. I made a latte, drew a tiny heart, and added one sugar. Left it in front of him without a word.

He looked at me for the first time. Frowned. “I didn’t order this.”

“On the house,” I said. “Rainy nights aren’t for black coffee.”

He looked annoyed, then sneezed. Once, twice, three times. I passed him tissues. He took them, didn’t say thanks. But he finished the latte.

Next week, 3:17 AM. He walked in, hair dry, but eyes puffy. He slid a note across the counter before ordering.

The note said: “Black coffee. No sugar. But… Can you draw the heart again?”

After that, every cup had a heart. Sometimes crooked. Sometimes it looked like a potato because my hands shook. He never commented. But he always took a photo of the cup before drinking.

Month 9, he disappeared for two weeks. My heart's coffee went cold on the counter. I started thinking I’d ruined his “routine.” Maybe he hated me.

Day 15, 3:17 AM, the café door opened. Not Rayyan. His mom.

She ordered, “Black coffee, no sugar.” Then she handed me a notebook. “Rayyan’s in the hospital. Dengue. He told me to return this.”

Inside were drawings. Every cup I’d made. Date, time, what the heart looked like. Under each drawing was a sentence. “Today the heart was lopsided. Like my day.” “Today the heart was perfect. Like the barista’s smile.”

“If I get better, I want to order something else. Coffee with your name. Can I?”

I waited three more weeks. The day he was discharged, he walked into the café at 3:17 AM. Slow, but smiling.

He didn’t order at the counter. He sat in front of me, placed a new note down.

It said: “Neyya Shiny, one latte, less sugar, extra love. Sit and drink with me, okay?”

I’m not just the 3 AM barista anymore. Now I’m the reason he comes at 3 AM.

And yes, his coffee is always sweet now. Because of me.

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