Coffee, Lies and My Student's Dad

Chapter 17: The Midnight Heist

The hallway was a tunnel of suffocating silence. Only the jagged orange glow of the streetlights filtered through the ventilation slats, casting long, skeletal shadows across the cold marble floor.

I stood frozen at the threshold of my room. My right hand gripped the handle of a carry-on suitcase while my left held a bulging tote bag. My heart hammered against my ribs with such violence I was certain the walls could hear it.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

I lifted the suitcase entirely off the ground. I couldn't drag it. Rolling wheels on marble at two in the morning would sound like a tank battalion charging through the house.

The muscles in my arm protested immediately, a sharp ache blooming in my shoulder, but I ignored it. I had to.

My first step landed without a sound. Then the second. Safe.

I crept down the corridor like a thief in my own home. My eyes remained locked on the master bedroom door at the far end of the hall.

My parents’ lair.

As I drew level with their door, a sound tore through the stillness.

A snore.

My father’s snore. It was loud, rhythmic, and sounded like a rusted Vespa struggling uphill.

I held my breath, frozen like a statue. Usually, that sound was an irritant that made me want to throw a pillow at the wall, but tonight, it was the most beautiful symphony I had ever heard. It meant they were fast asleep.

I pressed on, quickening my pace while maintaining absolute silence. Cold sweat began to prickle at my hairline, stinging my eyes.

When I reached the living room, the real boss fight began. The front door.

The brass bolt on this heavy teak door had been temperamental for years. If I wasn't surgical with my movements, the metal would scrape against the floor with a piercing screech.

I lowered the suitcase with agonizing slowness. I sank to my knees on the rug.

My hands were shaking as I reached for the cold metal bolt. It felt slick, greasy with my own nervous perspiration.

“Don’t you dare,” I whispered to myself. “Do not fail me now.”

I eased the bolt upward. Millimeter by agonizing millimeter.

A faint creak.

The sound of metal scraping was tiny, but in the dead of night, it felt like a megaphone announcement in a library.

I stopped. I glanced back toward the stairs, expecting to see my mother’s judgmental silhouette at any moment.

Nothing. Only the distant, muffled engine of my father’s snoring.

I took a ragged breath, then with one swift, decisive motion, I pulled the bolt free from its socket.

Click.

Success.

I stood up, grabbed the heavy handle, and turned it. The mechanism gave way with a soft thud.

The Jakarta night air hit me instantly. It was humid, heavy with the scent of damp earth and exhaust, but to me, it smelled like absolute, unfiltered freedom.

I didn't waste another second. I hoisted the suitcase again, stepped out onto the porch, and eased the door shut behind me until the automatic lock engaged.

I turned to face the dark, sprawling yard. The palm trees swayed like restless giants in the breeze.

I broke into a half-run across the grass. I avoided the paving stones to keep my sneakers from thumping. I headed straight for the small side gate, the one I’d had a key made for weeks before in anticipation of this very moment.

The moment I stepped onto the Brawijaya sidewalk, I let out a breath so long it felt like my lungs were collapsing.

“I did it,” I hissed under my breath, my voice trembling with a mix of terror and triumph. “I actually did it.”

My eyes scanned the deserted street, looking for the familiar shape of Saskia’s red Brio.

It wasn't there.

Instead, a white hatchback sat idling under the deep shadow of a massive mahogany tree about ten meters from the gate.

The engine was a low, smooth hum. The headlights were dark.

My brow furrowed. That wasn't Saskia’s car. Whose was it? A rogue taxi? Or worse—one of Rei’s watchers?

Panic flared in my throat. I was about to retreat behind the safety of the gate when the driver’s side door swung open.

A tall figure stepped out.

He was dressed in a charcoal-colored hoodie with the hood pulled up, paired with dark jogging pants. His face was a blur of shadows.

He began walking toward me with a fast, purposeful stride.

My heart stopped. A mugger? A kidnapper? A debt collector?

I stumbled back a step, ready to swing my heavy suitcase at his head or scream until the neighbors woke up.

“Shhh!” The man raised a hand, signaling for silence.

He reached up and pulled back his hood just as he stepped under the amber glow of a streetlamp.

Messy dark hair. A jawline that looked carved from granite. Eyes that held a look of profound, localized awkwardness.

My jaw hit the floor.

“Mr. Dio?” I whispered, the name catching in my dry throat.

Dio stood before me, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. He looked like he had just rolled out of bed, yet somehow, he managed to look infuriatingly handsome even in the middle of a suburban heist.

“Good evening, Ms. Elara,” he greeted me. His baritone was a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated in the quiet air.

“What on earth are you doing here at this hour?!” I hissed, my eyes darting from him to my luggage and back again. “Are you stalking me?”

My face felt like it was on fire. Here I was, running away from home, wearing an oversized t-shirt, covered in nervous sweat, and I had been caught by my student’s father. My professional dignity had just plummeted into the negatives.

Dio looked genuinely flustered. He rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes shifting away from mine.

“I wasn't stalking you. I was just...”

BANG.

The front passenger door of the car flew open.

Saskia hopped out, a wide, unrepentant grin plastered on her face. She was wearing a denim jacket and a baseball cap turned backward.

“Tadaaaa! I’m the one who called him!” Saskia chirped, jogging over to us.

I turned a murderous glare on my best friend.

“Saskia Putri! Have you lost your mind?!” I hissed, pinching her arm hard. “Why did you bring him?!”

“Ow! Watch the skin, La!” Saskia rubbed her arm, laughing softly. “My car died this afternoon. The battery is completely toasted. Then I thought, you have that massive suitcase. You need some serious muscle!”

She jerked her thumb toward Dio.

“And the only guy I trust at two in the morning—who has a car, a clean record, the build of a professional bodyguard, and is basically Romeo material for a midnight rescue—is this gentleman right here.”

I looked back at Dio. He gave me a sheepish, helpless smile, seemingly resigned to being described as muscle and Romeo.

“I... happened to be awake when Ms. Saskia called,” Dio explained softly. “And I was worried about the two of you being out alone at this hour.”

He reached out toward my suitcase.

“Here. Let me take that. It looks heavy.”

Before my pride could formulate a protest, Dio had already hoisted the suitcase with one hand. He made it look effortless. I had nearly slipped a disc in my spine trying to carry that thing, and he handled it like it was filled with feathers.

He walked to the back of the car, stowing my bags in the trunk with efficient, quiet movements.

I remained frozen on the sidewalk, staring at Saskia.

“You owe me a massive explanation, Kia. Massive.”

“I’ll pay you back in installments. Now get in the car before the neighborhood watch makes their rounds!” Saskia shoved me toward the passenger side.

We moved to the car. Saskia, ever the opportunist, dived into the back seat and immediately buried her face in her phone, pretending to be invisible.

The door slammed shut behind me.

I stood awkwardly by the passenger door. The backseat was occupied by Saskia and a pile of her gym gear.

There was only one seat left. Right next to the driver.

Dio was already behind the wheel. He looked at me through the open window, one eyebrow arched in silent invitation.

“Please, Ms. Elara. You’ll catch a cold out there.”

With the stiff, jerky movements of a malfunctioning robot, I opened the door.

SLAM.

I sat down. The scent of the car’s interior hit me instantly. A cool, crisp peppermint mingled with the faint, warm scent of Dio—something like sandalwood and expensive soap.

The space felt incredibly small. My left shoulder was chilled by the AC vent, but my right side felt a strange, radiating heat from the man sitting inches away.

“Is everyone in?” Dio asked, glancing at the rearview mirror, then at me.

“Ready to roll, Captain!” Saskia shouted from the back.

“Yes... thank you, Mr. Dio,” I muttered, staring at the dashboard as if it were the most fascinating piece of technology on the planet.

Dio shifted the car into gear. His left hand moved with practiced fluidity, the veins on the back of his hand prominent under the soft glow of the instrument panel.

The car pulled away from the curb, leaving the Brawijaya house behind. The mansion stood there, cold and arrogant, slowly fading into the darkness.

In the side mirror, I watched the gates of my golden prison shrink, turn into a speck, and finally vanish as we rounded the corner.

It felt surreal.

I was free. I had actually escaped.

But as the adrenaline began to ebb, the absurdity of the situation set in. I was in a tiny hatchback at two in the morning, fleeing my life with a chaotic best friend and a billionaire widower who was currently moonlighting as my getaway driver.

“Would you like some music? To break the silence?” Dio offered, his voice gentle.

“Yes, please,” I replied quickly. Anything to drown out the sound of my own frantic breathing.

Dio pressed a button on the console.

A familiar, upbeat intro began to play softly through the speakers.

“I’m sitting here in a boring room... It’s just another rainy Sunday afternoon...”

Lemon Tree.

It was a ridiculous choice for a midnight escape, but somehow, the irony felt perfect.

I leaned my head back against the headrest and closed my eyes. A small, tired smile tugged at the corners of my mouth.

My life had officially transitioned from a tragedy into a dark comedy.