Chapter 177: Cafe Relaxation

The café didn’t look like a business spot. No glass walls, no shiny espresso machines displayed for show, no coworking tables with ring lights and laptops. It was tucked between a yoga studio and a flower shop, partially hidden by a tree whose branches almost covered its sign:Quiet Hours Café.

Fitting.

The driver dropped him off and waited outside. Timothy pushed the door gently. No door chimes. Just the quiet hiss of the AC and the soft hum of an air purifier.

Inside—wood tables, soft gray walls, warm lighting, muted jazz music. No influencers posing with graham frappes. No loud conversations. Just three customers—laptop open, headphones on; two older women chatting softly; and a young man reading an actual paperback book. Thıs text ıs hosted at NovєlFіre.net

A waitress approached, smiling professionally—not enthusiastically.

"Table for one, sir?"

"Yes."

"Window side? It’s quieter."

He nodded.

She led him to a table near the glass. Outside, the street wasn’t loud—just passing cars, bicycles, people walking quietly, coffee in hand.

She laid down a menu.

"Take your time, sir. We don’t rush here."

That line landed well.

He scanned the menu. No complicated descriptions, no ’artisanal foam’ or ’sun-kissed espresso drizzle.’

Just coffee, tea, pastries, sandwiches.

He ordered a strawberry frappe and a ham-and-cheese croissant—not because he particularly wanted those, but because they felt simple.

Comfortable.

He set his phone on the table.

Five unread messages. Three new email threads. One calendar alert.

He didn’t open any of them.

For once, he didn’t feel the need to.

The frappe arrived first.

Real strawberries, not syrup. He tasted it.

Cold. Sweet. No complicated flavor. Just... strawberry.

The croissant followed. He broke it apart. Flaky, warm, buttery.

He didn’t realize how quiet his mornings had been lately. Not quiet like silence—quiet like structured, organized, scheduled silence.

This was different.

This was silence without an agenda.

He looked around again.

A woman in her mid-twenties entered, in office attire. She ordered coffee. When she turned, her eyes widened a little.

Recognition flickered.

She pretended not to stare.

She sat four tables away.

Five minutes later, another one. A guy with a messenger bag, probably a law student or banker. He looked twice.

Then, a pair of college girls—Giggles, hushed whispers, then glances.

Timothy sighed.

Here we go.

The office girl stood slowly, holding her coffee as if shielding herself.

"Sir—uh—sorry to disturb, but... are you... Mr. Guerrero?"

She didn’t ask for confirmation like a journalist. She already knew. She was just being polite.

He nodded slightly. "Yes."

Her eyes widened. "Oh—wow—okay, um... I’m sorry, I don’t want to bother—you’re eating—sorry—"

"It’s okay."

She held out her phone shyly. "Could we—um—just take a quick picture? I work in Mandaluyong, and my office has been doing energy reports about your... project, so I just—sorry, this is embarrassing."

He nodded. They took one quick photo. She thanked him, bowed a little—like he was some professor—and returned to her seat, refusing to look his way again.

Five minutes later, the law student approached.

"Sir, big fan. You’re changing things. Can I get a picture?"

Quick. Respectful. Left immediately.

Then, the two college girls.

They were nervous—not fangirl screaming nervous, but unsure if it was okay to ask nervous.

One of them spoke, barely above a whisper.

"Sir... can we? Our dad watches your interviews."

That one made him smile genuinely.

Selfie. Then another one for ’family group chat.’

They left right away too.

No one lingered. No one asked questions. No one tried to sit down with him.

They just... took a moment, and left him alone again.

He leaned back in his chair.

No cameras flashing after the photo. No one asking him to sign anything. No curious stares that lasted too long. They simply took a photo, smiled nervously, and went back to their own coffee cups and quiet conversations.

That felt... new.

He had spoken in hearings and press briefings. He had walked through construction sites with drones overhead. He had stood in interviews streamed to millions.

But here—people treated him like someone they were proud of, not someone they needed something from.

He took another sip of his frappe.

The jazz music blended with the soft hum of the air conditioner. The air smelled faintly of coffee beans, warm bread, and something sweet—vanilla, maybe. Every now and then, the door would open, letting in a bit of warm air before closing with a quiet click.

He noticed something—no one inside the café was talking about him.

In other places, recognition changed the atmosphere.

Here, it didn’t.

The two older women continued their conversation—something about their children’s college tuition. The guy with the laptop was editing a document—no sneaky glances, no photos. The book reader didn’t even look up.

They all saw him.

But they didn’t treat him like a spectacle.

They treated him like a person who just happened to be here.

He stared out the window.

People walked by—not rushing, not checking their emails as they walked, not honking or shouting. Just walking. A bicycle rolled past. A dog walker followed. A kid held hands with his father, carrying a small paper bag from the flower shop next door.

Normal life.

He had forgotten what that looked like.

He tore another piece off his croissant and ate slowly.

His phone buzzed.

He flipped it over—face down.

Not now.

For once, work could wait.

The waitress approached again, this time without a menu.

"Would you like some water, sir?"

"Yes," he said. "Thank you."

"No rush on anything. You can stay as long as you want," she said quietly.

No rush.

How long had it been since someone said that to him?

He wasn’t sure.

She placed the glass of water on his table and left without asking if he needed anything else. Somehow, that was more considerate than asking.

He sat there, looking at nothing in particular. And there he stayed for another thirty minutes, and after that. He rose to his feet and slid a thousand pesos under the tissue. It was a very normal day.