Black Coffee, No Strings

Xavier's POV

Her back arched beneath me. Her nails dug into my shoulders. She moaned something — my name, a prayer, I didn’t care.

I fucked her like I needed it. Like if I stopped, something inside me would catch up.

And when I came, it was sharp and fast and empty. Three seconds of nothing. Then it was over.

I pulled out, rolled off, and stared at the ceiling. The fan spun overhead, clicking with each rotation. I counted the seconds until I could leave without being rude.

She traced lazy circles on my chest. “Wow. That was—"

“Give me a minute.”

A pause. Then: “You want to stay for breakfast? I make a mean—”

“I have a deposition at eight.”

I didn’t. But she didn’t need to know that.

I was dressed in under two minutes. Shirt, pants, jacket slung over my shoulder. At the door, she kissed me slow, searching, like she was trying to find something I didn’t have.

“Call me?”

I smiled. It was a good smile — warm, charming, completely empty. “I will.”

I wouldn’t.

Let me back up. You probably want to know who I am.

I’m Xavier Madrigal. I am twenty-eight years old. Junior partner at Madrigal & Cruz, one of the top firms in the city. I made partner at twenty-six — youngest in the firm’s history. I’ve never lost a case I actually cared about.

I’m tall — six-one — with the kind of build that fills out a suit without looking like I spend my life in the gym. Dark hair I keep short on the sides, longer on top. Brown eyes that women tell me are intense. A jaw that cuts sharp enough to make opposing counsel nervous. I look good and I know it. Not in an arrogant way — in a practical way. Looking good is a weapon. I use all my weapons.

I drive a Porsche. I live in a penthouse in BGC with a view of the skyline and furniture I never sit on. I’ve been told I’m charming, ruthless, and impossible to read. I take all three as compliments.

I don’t do relationships. I don’t do feelings. I do sex — clean, transactional, no strings attached. I meet a woman at a bar, I take her home, I leave before sunrise. Everyone walks away happy.

That’s the deal. That’s always been the deal.

The elevator doors closed. I checked my phone. Three missed calls from Cal. One from my paralegal. A text from Ben: You left with the redhead. You’re a menace.

I typed back: She had a name.

Ben: Do you know it?

I didn’t. I pocketed my phone and stepped into the Manila morning — humid, gray, already thick with traffic. The sun was just starting to bleed through the smog.

I lit a cigarette, took one drag, and stubbed it out. I didn’t even like smoking. It was just something to do with my hands.

The courthouse was a cathedral of gray concrete and bad fluorescent lighting. I walked through the metal detectors like I owned the place — because, in a way, I did. Youngest partner at Madrigal & Cruz. Twenty-eight and already the man everyone wanted to be.

Today’s case was a property dispute. Boring. Lucrative. My opponent was Atty. Reyes, a portly man who sweated through his barong and stammered through his objections.

I destroyed him.

Not cruelly. Just completely. Piece by piece, calm and methodical, like I was taking apart a clock. By recess, he looked like he wanted to retire on the spot.

My client shook my hand. ”You’re a shark. A goddamn shark.”

I smiled. “I’ll have the draft to you by Friday.”

I didn’t feel good about the win. I never did. Winning was just the absence of losing. A neutral state. I’d learned a long time ago not to attach meaning to victories, because everything temporary eventually left.

Ligaya was Ben’s bar. Dark wood, warm light, the smell of whiskey and older regrets. I had a stool with my name on it — literally, a small brass plaque Ben installed as a joke.

“Look who finally showed up,” Ben said, sliding me a scotch. “The prodigal playboy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Too late. Cal ordered the shirts.”

I took a long sip. “Where is the idiot?”

“Running late. Some startup thing. He’s ‘disrupting the logistics industry.’”

“He says that every month.”

“And every month, he loses money.” Ben grinned. “But he’s happy. That’s what matters.”

“Happiness is overrated.”

Ben leaned on the bar, studying me with those knowing eyes. Ben was the only person who could look at me like that without getting a wall slammed in his face. Married to his college sweetheart. A dog named Pancake. A mortgage. A life I couldn’t fathom.

Ben was happy. Genuinely, annoyingly happy.

“You’re doing it again,” he said.

“Doing what?”

“That thing where you smile but your eyes are dead.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t.” He wiped down the bar. “How was last night?”

“Fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Karen was fine.”

“Karen?”

“The redhead.”

Ben raised an eyebrow. “Her name was Carla.”

I paused. “Was it?”

Ben shook his head, but he was smiling. “One of these days, you’re going to meet someone who actually matters, and you’re going to have no idea what to do with yourself.”

“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

“That’s the thing, X.” His voice softened. “You never come to it. You just keep building bridges away from it.”

The door swung open. Cal burst in like a hurricane in designer sneakers.

“Gentlemen! The party has arrived!”

Cal was tall, lanky, dressed like he’d walked out of a music video. Oversized hoodie, gold chains, a messy bun that somehow looked intentional. He’d sold his fintech startup for eight figures and had been “retired” ever since — which meant he invested in stupid ventures and partied like it was his job.

“Xavier!” He wrapped an arm around me. “I heard you bagged the redhead. Carla, right? Family law. She’s gonna be pissed when you ghost her.”

“I don’t ghost people.”

“You absolutely ghost people. You’re the ghost king. You haunt them for one night and vanish into the mist.”

Ben laughed. “He’s not wrong.”

I drained my scotch. “I don’t see the problem. I’m clear about what I want. No promises. No expectations. Everyone walks away happy.”

“Does she walk away happy?” Ben asked quietly. “Or does she walk away wondering what she did wrong?”

I didn’t answer.

Cal, sensing the mood shift, clapped his hands. “Okay, enough philosophy. I’m buying shots.”

The night went on. Shots were poured. Cal got louder. Ben got wiser. I got drunk enough to stop thinking.

Then, somewhere between the third and fourth round, Ben asked the question.

“Are you happy, X?”

I looked at my glass. The amber liquid swirled. I thought about the woman whose name I couldn’t remember. The case I’d won without feeling anything. The penthouse I’d bought but never really lived in.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s the best I can do.”

Ben nodded slowly. “Okay. That’s fair.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Just... don’t build so many walls that you forget there’s a door.”

It was past midnight when I left. Too drunk to drive, so I called a car and sat in the back, watching the city blur past. Manila at night was a different animal — neon and noise and people who were still awake because they were either happy or running from something.

I knew which category I fell into.

My driver took a detour through Maginhawa. My usual coffee spot — a pretentious place with a single-origin pour-over menu — was closed. Dark. Shuttered.

“Pull over,” I said.

The driver looked confused. “Sir?”

“Just pull over. I’ll walk.”

I paid and stepped out onto the quiet street. The air smelled like rain and roasting coffee. I walked aimlessly for a block, then two, hands in my pockets, head buzzing with scotch and thoughts I didn’t want to have.

And then I saw it.

A small cafe, tucked between a bookstore and a sari-sari store. The sign read TALA in warm, hand-painted letters. A soft golden glow spilled from the windows. It was closed — lights off — but there was a figure inside, moving through the dark.

A woman.

She was wiping down tables, her back to the window. Long dark hair in a loose ponytail. A simple dress. She moved with a quiet grace, unhurried, like she had nowhere else to be.

I stopped.

I didn’t know why I stopped. I’d seen a thousand women. I’d fucked a hundred of them. But something about this one — the way she moved, the way the light caught her silhouette — made my chest tighten in a way I didn’t recognize.

She turned.

For a moment, our eyes met through the glass. She was too far away to see me clearly, and I was too drunk to trust what I was seeing. But for one electric second, the world went quiet.

Do I know you?

The thought came unbidden. I shook my head, blinked, and the moment passed. She looked away, back to her work.

I turned and walked home.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about her face.