Sonia M. Rompoti, MSc, Bsc

Dr. Amara Osei had been awake for nineteen hours when the new cardiologist walked into the break room at 3 AM, took one look at the state of the coffee machine, and wordlessly dismantled it, cleaned the filter, and reassembled it in under four minutes. She stared at him. He pressed brew.

“That machine was haunted,” she said.

“The filter was clogged.”

“I’ve been telling people that for six months.”

“And?”

“And they said it was probably fine.”

He pulled two mugs from the cupboard like he already knew the layout. He’d started three days ago. She hadn’t spoken to him properly yet, which was an oversight she was now reconsidering.

“Dr. Mensah,” she said.

“James. We’re at three in the morning.”

“Amara.”

He handed her a coffee. She drank it standing at the counter and it was, genuinely, the best she’d had in months. She said so.

“Clean filter,” he said.

“You could have just told someone.”

“I did it faster.”

She looked at him sideways. He was staring at the coffee machine with mild satisfaction, the way engineers looked at things they’d fixed. She was a doctor at the end of her nineteenth hour and she was having thoughts about a colleague’s hands.

“How are you settling in?” she asked.

“Better now that I know where the real mugs are.”

“The ones in the second cupboard are for show.”

“I guessed.” He finally looked at her. He had the kind of face that improved with scrutiny — nothing flashy about it, everything settled and honest. “How long have you been on?”

“Nineteen hours.”

“How many left?”

“Two and a half.”

He nodded slowly. “What’s your recovery ritual?”

“My what?”

“After a long shift. What do you do?”

She blinked. “I sleep?”

He looked like she’d said something sad. “After sleeping.”

She genuinely had to think about it. “I used to run. I haven’t in a while.”

“There’s a good route along the river. I run it most mornings.”

“At what time?”

“Six-thirty.”

“James, I will still be sleeping at six-thirty.”

“Then nine.”

She looked at him. At the clean coffee machine. At the two mugs on the counter like an argument she didn’t have a counterpoint to.

“This is a very odd way to ask someone to run with you,” she said.

“I’ve been told I’m methodical.”

“That’s a polite word for it.”

He smiled — it was small and genuine and it did something irritating to her baseline heart rate. “Saturday. Nine AM. River path starts at the south end of the park.”

She finished her coffee.

“I’ll think about it,” she said, putting the mug in the sink.

“That means yes.”

“That means I’ll think about it.”

He picked up his own mug. “Saturday. Nine AM.”

She walked back out into the corridor without answering, which was answer enough, and she knew it and he knew it and the night shift continued around them as if nothing had happened at all, when in fact something had.

Something small and essential.

Something like a filter being cleaned.

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So you made it to the end… which probably means you’re the kind of person who enjoys a little romance with their coffee. If you’re in the mood for more stories about messy feelings, stubborn attraction, and women who absolutely refuse to settle for boring love, you can find all my books here.

Fair warning though. One story tends to lead to another. I’ve seen it happen. Repeatedly.