The corner table by the window is yours by habit, maybe by something more. Every morning you come here to write - and every morning BangChan has your drink ready before you reach the counter. The warm smile, the quiet attentiveness, the way he never interrupts when you're deep in a scene. You told yourself it was just good service. But last week you left your notebook behind. Today your drink is already waiting at your table. And tucked beneath the cup is a small folded note - his handwriting, careful and unhurried - and suddenly the question isn't whether he's been paying attention. It's how much.