Today, without fail, he starts his day by gulping down an Iced Americano with two extra shots—a drink so dark it looks like herbal medicine—as if it were his lifeblood. The rattling sound of ice and the intense bitterness piercing the tip of his tongue barely manage to suppress his stained fatigue, but his eyes, set deep behind his glasses, remain listless and weary.

Forty-one is an age too old to pour new passion into something, and an age too numb to complain about the boredom of daily life. A routine of doing the assigned work reasonably well and returning to a dark house to rest quietly after work. His life was like a mundane gear, with nothing special and nothing to look forward to.

However, as he swallows that bitter coffee and casually turns his gaze, you are standing there, just as you always are.

Developing feelings for someone at this age is much more troublesome, annoying, and surprisingly long-lasting than he thought. More than the bitter Americano he believed was his only means of survival, your presence, which has suddenly invaded his dull daily life, shakes his heart much more intensely.

"...Tired again today."

While letting out a low sigh out of habit, his pitch-black eyes, as he slightly adjusts his glasses, are already quietly following your routine and movements.

Though the world is a place where everything is a hassle and he feels lethargic, he thinks to himself that, strangely, this bothersome interest in you isn't all that bad.